


Reach the end and start again

by taj_mahal



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Canon Compliant, Family, Friendship, Future Fic, Gen, Hospitalization, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, Major Character Injury, Medical Procedures, No Slash, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Psychological Trauma, Rivalry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-23
Updated: 2018-10-24
Packaged: 2019-05-27 13:48:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 61
Words: 155,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15025982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taj_mahal/pseuds/taj_mahal
Summary: After a devastating incident during the French Open final of 2019 both Rafa and Roger need to find a way to  cope with the physical and mental repercussions of what happened to them that day as well as a way to reestablish that fragile balance between the friendship and rivalry they share.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> A few short general notes before the story gets underway:
> 
> \- I'm really, really, really nervous about sharing this with anyone so please, please, please leave your feedback and help me keep this story going  
> \- English is not my native tongue. Any mistakes made are mine and mine alone. Feel free to point them out though. :-)  
> \- I haven't written a fic for this fandom in at least eight years, so please bear with me if I'm a little rusty  
> \- Chapters will not be excessively long but I wil try to update at least every 2-3 days to make up for that  
> \- I'm a Rafa girl and I gladly accept and appreciate any help with the Federer parts of this story. He'll probably end up a little OOC...  
> \- This is a friendship only fic. I don't do slash. Not ever. Period.  
> \- The story is (mostly) canon compliant. There will be minor changes to fit my timeline better though.  
> If there are I will leave a note at the beginning of that particular chapter  
> \- There's copious amounts of hurt/comfort, physical and mental trauma and a tiny bit of graphic descriptions of injuries in this story. I will add additional warnings and tags as the story progresses  
> \- Hopefully this will be a long one. Right now the outline of the story is about 60 to 80 chapters long and I really hope I can keep up the drive  
> \- Reviews are greately appreciated and feed the plot bunny :-D
> 
> ********************************************************************
> 
> One more thing about the prologue in particular - the only character mentioned by name in here is an OC that appears in the prologue only.  
> Leaving the major characters unnamed at this point is on purpose in order to not give away a major plotline of the next 10 to 25 chapters too early.  
> As I said - bear with me please :-)

„This isn’t necessary.“

It was the very first thing out of his mouth before the therapist, who had introduced herself as Mrs. Williams, had even asked him to sit down and start this unwanted and even dreaded conversation. He didn't want to be here but when the woman offered him a chair opposite of her own with an inviting gesture and a soft smile that never quite reached her eyes, he didn't protest. He plopped down into the comfortable armchair and watched closely as the therapist sat down as well, grabbed a pen and a pad of paper from the table beside her chair and looked at him. Her scrutiny was uncomfortable to say the least and her questions weren't any better. 

„Why would you say that?“

“Because it’s true. It’s useless and stupid, is what it is. Why am I even here?”

“Because the ATP player’s council decided that in light of what happened at the French Open finale, there should be a mandatory session of counseling for everyone involved in the incident. And of course counseling has been offered to anyone who hasn’t directly been affected but feels the need for guidance and perspective to deal with the events.”

The way the woman – supposedly a medical professional and a trained psychologist – spoke, it sounded like she was talking about something abstract and clinical. Of course she could speak about it this way. She could be detached about it. She hadn’t been there… The way this unnerving woman put it, it sounded like nothing of importance had happened that day six weeks ago… Like it was just another unfortunate mishap like they occurred every day in life. An “incident” as she had put it. Well it hadn’t been anything like that but he certainly didn’t plan on telling her that. He didn’t like her, he felt no sympathy or trust towards this stranger and he hadn’t wanted to be here in the first place. He crossed his arms, trying his hardest to keep his facial expression neutral.

“Then I still don’t understand what I’m doing here. I wasn’t directly affected and I certainly didn’t ask to be here.”

“You were there, were you not.”

“Yes… But I wasn’t hurt.”

“Not physically, no.”

Her calm, collected demeanor was infuriating and made it difficult to keep all those emotions threatening to bubble up in check. Yes, he had been there, had been a witness to the horrors unfolding that day and he had been so close to the “event”, as the psychologist had put it, that he could still feel the warmth of that afternoon sun burning on his skin, could still hear the chaos of several thousand people around him slowly drifting into a panicked frenzy, could still smell the coppery scent of blood, could still feel the stickiness of that same blood on his hands slowly drying, turning from dark crimson to an unappealing brownish color, crusting under his nails… He swallowed thickly, trying hard to keep his facial expression calm, but of course his reaction didn’t go unnoticed.

“You seem upset. Would you tell me what you were just thinking about?”

“No.”

„How about sleep? Will you tell me about that?”

“What about it?”

“Do you sleep well? Regularly? Is it restful?”

He was being defensive and he was very well aware of it. The woman’s expression had changed from neutral to something he could only describe as a mixture of mild amusement… and pity. But maybe that was just his imagination playing tricks on him. Her question hit a nerve though. She was on the spot with the assumption that his sleep pattern had neither been regular nor restful ever since that fateful day six weeks ago. He hadn’t been concerned about that though. After all it had been a godawful experience and obviously his mind was still trying to work through that. He shrugged in response but wasn’t shy to explain himself this time.

“No. Not exactly. I have trouble with that and when I do I tend to have nightmares or at least that’s what I think they are. Once I wake up I can’t remember them. But it is to be expected, is it not? The ‘incident’ you keep referring to? I witnessed something terrible…”

“So you think it is normal for you to have nightmares and trouble sleeping?”

“After something like this? Yes.”

“So you don’t see any need for counseling? Somebody to professionally help you with your sleeping disorder?”

“It’s not a disorder. I’m just having a trying time to process what happened that day. Wouldn’t anybody?”

“Yes. It is difficult for most people who are not specifically trained. But most of them also acknowledge the fact that they don’t have to go through this period of processing and readjusting on their own.”

He wasn’t sure how to respond to that. There was definitely a hint of reproach in the woman’s voice or maybe that was what he had wanted to hear… It was definitely the tone of voice his own wife had used whenever he had told her his trouble sleeping was normal and she had called him out on that. She had been enthusiastic about this meeting he had here today. It seemed everyone around him thoroughly believed there was something wrong with him. Everyone but him… The psychologist’s voice interrupted his musings and what she had to say caught him completely off guard.

“Maybe it’s because you feel a sense of achievement?”

“A sense of achievement? Why would that be?”

“You saved a life that day.”

“That’s hardly true. I did what anyone would have done.”

“You kept a level head in an impossible situation. That in itself is an accomplishment.”

A humorless huff escaped his lips at the statement of the therapist. If she truly believed he had reacted extraordinarily well on that day six weeks ago,it made even less sense that she had summoned him here today. Nothing she had said about feeling accomplished or even level headed about that day in Paris made any sense to him. It seemed utterly ridiculous instead and he couldn't help but make both his anger and his disbelief about the way she handled this conversation known. 

“And still you summoned me here today to have my head shrunk…”

“And I stand by that. In my professional opinion your coping mechanism is neither healthy nor appropriate.”

“And what will you do about that?“

The defensiveness was back and this time it was paired with anger. She had been careful so far – calm, collected and detached – but now she had changed tactics and she was being extremely blunt in her analysis. Of course she was entitled to her own opinion and maybe it was even validated by her professional background but he certainly didn't care to be analyzed and judged by some stranger who knew little to nothing about him. 

„There's nothing I can do, not legally anyway. I can't force you to see me or any other therapist again but I would strongly recommend it. That is all I can do, give a truly well meant recommendation to you. The really important question is, what will you do?“

„I will go. That's what I'll do. Good day to you, Mrs. Williams.“

He got up abruptly, stiffly and obviously caught the therapist by surprise with his reaction. She made no move to get up herself but kept watching him closely and he felt no desire to step any closer and offer her a handshake as goodbye. Her scrutiny still bothered him a lot and as he hadn't wanted to be here in the first place. He was glad to finally leave the room, the therapist and the conversation behind.

Stepping out into the corridor a sense of relief washed over him. This had not been pleasant and the longer it lasted it had been harder and harder to keep himself from spilling his guts and allowing the whole truth to come to light. A sense of achievement... The therapist's words still lingered in the back of his mind as he briskly walked down the corridor. He wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry about those strange words. If only she knew... She couldn't have been further from the truth! He hadn't accomplished anything that day, he hadn't been brave or level headed or superior in any way. It was exactly the other way around. He had been the cause. He had been responsible and he could have stopped it all from happening in the first place...

If anything it was his fault this whole mess had happened in the first place. A devastating catastrophe affecting hundreds and thousands of people, their lives altered, some of them hurt or scarred – both physically and mentally – possibly for life and above all else the life of somebody he knew, somebody he could, in good conscience, say that he liked and cared about left hanging in the balance... and it was all his fault.


	2. The stage is set

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to betsy and MeLoveRF for the reviews and the encouragment. It's much appreciated.
> 
> First full chapter is here. Changes in POV are indicated by #*#*#*#*#  
> Hope you like it. :-)
> 
> <>°O°<>

*45 days earlier*

 

The feeling of fatefulness, of destiny seemed to be hanging heavily in the humid, warm, late spring air of the city of Paris or maybe that was just a delusion of grandeur trying to take hold. Rafa had to grin at the notion. He might have been a lot of things, but being pompous wasn't usually a trait that was easily associated with him. At least not by those who knew him well. Then again there had been a lot of things been said about him over time. Some of them on the spot... and some of them completely ridiculous. Maybe he was being pompous after all but if it was the case, he really couldn't bring himself to mind.

It wasn't exactly like he was undeserving of a little bit of grandeur. The last 11 months had been a blur of memorable moments and dreams coming true, one after the other. He had managed to win both Wimbledon last year and the Australian Open this year. Now he was back in Paris for his 12th try at the title and it was his chance to even the score against Roger as well. 

Surprisingly enough Roger was here in Paris. It had been a strange development and Rafa couldn't stop to think that maybe Roger had somehow felt the same feeling of destiny lingering. Or maybe it was a sense of pride that had driven the older man to rearrange his calendar and include the French Open in his schedule, something he usually didn't do anymore. But of course Roger had been just as aware of the tie that could be reached this Sunday and it seemed he had been deeply unwilling to let that happen without a fight. 

Life or chance or providence – whatever one wanted to call it – had come up with a constellation that could only be described as some sort of divine intervention. Of all the possible outcomes of this tournament, including early losses to unexpected opponents, injuries or simply a bad day in form and physicality, things had come to pass as they were supposed to with the opportunity that presented itself.

Rafa would be playing against Roger in the final and he had only just found out about it. Or more precisely he was about to find out. By the time he had finished his post semi final match responsibilities, Roger had won two sets of his semi final and was about to serve for match point in the third set. Rafa had talked to the press, had seen his physio, had eaten a very late lunch and had only just returned to his hotel room to find the majority of his team there, crowded in the main room, occupying the couch and the space around it, following the second semi-final of the day.

Nobody seemed willing to make any space for him on the couch, not without being asked to do so. They all seemed glued to the TV even though it was pretty obvious how the match would end. After all Roger was now only three points away from reaching the finale. Rafa settled himself on the one free spot on the edge of the couch, nervously bouncing on the balls of his feet. He wasn't exactly sure what left him on edge though. It wasn't like he hadn't expected to compete against Roger in the finale and it wasn't like there was much of any suspense left to those last three points of the match broadcasted on TV either.

Roger won the points on his own serve comfortably and the match was over within less than five minutes. His long time rival seemed happy, but not overly excited or elated. It was almost a little disappointing. The on court interview started and somebody put the TV on mute. It wasn't meant as disrespect but those interviews rarely revealed anything of relevance and they were pretty much always the same. Rafa knew. He had done enough of them to be an expert in that particular exercise. He got up from his spot on the couch while the rest of his team started discussing the outcome of the match and went to get himself a bottle of water from the little fridge provided within the hotel room. He was halfway on his way outside onto the balcony that belonged to the room, bottle in hand, when his uncle – who had arrived the day before his semi-finale more for moral support than anything else – stepped up to him, a very soft smile playing at the corners of his lips.

“So... Roger.”

“It's fine. It's good, I think. People will enjoy it.”

“How about you?”

“Didn't you teach me not to care who the opponent is but how to defeat him?”

“Yes, that sounds like something I would say. Still... Big day on Sunday.”

“Every Grand Slam final is a big day.”

A cheeky smile crossed his features at his own statement. If he remembered correctly he had said something that had sounded very similar at his post match press conference when asked how he felt about the final on Sunday, if it felt like routine after all these years. There was a soft chuckle from his uncle but the rest of his team didn't seem to allow him to get away with a joke instead of answering the initial question about how he felt about this fateful finale. It was his physio – Maymo – who called him out on his attempt at evasion.

“It's us you're talking to. Not some journalist at a press conference.”

“You didn't ask me anything.”

“We asked you how you feel about playing the final against the guy who's record of 20 Grand Slam titles you can equal if you win?”

Rafa had to smile at the prospect. Maybe he should have been scared or at least have shown some sort of healthy respect at the prospect of what lay ahead and at the enormity of it all. But he felt calm and relaxed and he was happy to have come this far in the tournament, all the while looking forward to yet another match against Roger and the prospect of what he could achieve if he actually managed to be victorious.

“Perfect. I feel perfect about it. It's the only deserving finale for the occasion. Roger deserves a fighting chance.”

“Only if you give him one.”

“You make it sound like I can't lose. And I thought I was being pompous...”

“Of course you can lose. Anything is possible... but we believe in you.”

Rafa couldn't help but chuckle at the statement. It had been Carlos who had said it and he was grinning from ear to ear while doing it. It was good natured teasing that was happening here right now and Rafa truly appreciated the light heartedness of it all. It mirrored exactly how he felt right now... He continued his way outside to the balcony to drink his water and have a quick moment to himself. But he stopped before stepping outside, turning to face his team once more, regarding them with yet another grin.

“I would be very, very disappointed if you didn't.”

#*#*#*#*#

It was a little past ten in the evening when Roger finally managed to return to his hotel and was ready to spend what little was still left of the evening in the privacy of his room and the company of his wife. The post match routine done, the two of them had gone for a lengthy dinner and even though the match had been a straight set win it had still been a draining day. One he was happy to conclude with a little bit of TV, maybe a glass of wine and a lot of relaxed lounging about, either on the couch in the main room or in bed. As both rooms provided TV and a soft surface to sit on, he really didn't care. 

Before he even had a chance to open the door to his room however, there were hurried steps down the corridor quickly approaching. He turned to see who it was and found his media manager on the way, an expression on his face that Roger couldn't quite make a lot of sense of. Wouldn't he have known any better, he would have said the man looked overwhelmed... But surely he was imaging things... By the time the other man reached him, he was a little out of breath but had plastered a professional, small smile on his face and was wearing a mask of calm composure. His tone of voice was measured but there was a hint of urgency to it as well. 

“I'm sorry to disturb you this late, but there's something I would like to show you. It's... quite disturbing and I think you should take a look so we can decide how to handle this matter from there on out.”

“Sounds cryptic. And dramatic. Can we do this tomorrow? It's been a long day...”

“Certainly. It's... it's not that urgent. But I really think we should talk about this again before the finale.”

“I have two interviews, a sponsorship engagement, a training session and a late lunch at the tournament site planned for tomorrow so far. Try in the afternoon. We should be back at the hotel by then.”

Maybe it wasn't exactly a friendly reaction, but it was late, Roger was tired and he truly felt he was doing his best to accommodate the media manager who had interrupted the planned evening with his wife so abruptly. It somehow seemed there was more the other man wanted to tell him, wanted to urge him to do but he never did. He obviously hadn't expected to be put off like that and it had obviously caused him to loose his initial drive he had brought into this conversation. Instead of starting the conversation back up again, he simply nodded... and hurried to say his goodbyes.

“I will. Have a good rest of the evening. Goodnight.”

Roger watched the other man go, still not exactly sure what to make of this encounter. It had been strange to say the least and he couldn't deny that he was at least mildly curious to find out what this whole intervention was all about... Upon the second attempt, they managed to get into their room without further disturbances and his wife – Mirka – waited to comment on what had just happened until the door to the hotel room had safely closed behind them.

“What was that all about?”

“I seriously have no idea but it sounded pretty melodramatic. I'm sure it's nothing...”


	3. The calm before the storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I needed Roger's daughters a little older for the purpose of this chapter.  
> So that's not canon compliant. In here they are about 14/15.
> 
> Also last chapter before all the drama starts...  
> Once again, changes in POV are indicated by #*#*#*#*#
> 
> <>°O°<>

Saturday passed in a blur for Roger. And it didn't exactly go as planned. But that wasn't any of his fault. Strictly speaking it wasn't anybody's fault. It had been a very pleasant surprise instead – one his wife had come up with for him. 

He had caught a quick glimpse of Rafa while at the tournament grounds for a late morning session of training but they hadn't shared more than a wave and a nod of acknowledgment. Of course he could have stayed, he could have watched but he felt no need for that. He knew Rafa for a long time and playing against him was something he felt he could do without scrutiny or assessment of the opponents style of play. 

Maybe it was an arrogant thing to say but he felt he knew Rafa's style of play inside and out. If there was one pleasant thing about the next day, than that – unlike with opponents one had never or barely ever played before – there would be few surprises. On the downside it would be incredibly hard and draining, both physically and mentally but that was just part of what it meant to play a Grand Slam match against Rafa, especially on clay... Roger was prepared for that.

Training and anything tennis related had been an afterthought for today anyway. He felt relaxed about the final on the next day and he wanted to use this day to recuperate, get his mind off tennis for a little while and just be a normal husband and visitor to one of the oldest and most beautiful cities of Europe. As it turned out he also got a chance to be a normal, ever day life father that day as well, because that was what Mirka's surprise had been all about. She had asked Roger's mother to bring the girls, while the boys stayed back home for the remainder of the tournament.

So when he returned from his scheduled appointments with both the press and the sponsors and after finishing his short practice session at the tournament site around noon to pick up his wife for lunch, she wasn't alone. His daughters were there as well and that was a most welcome and very nice surprise. 

They had spent the day in the city, pretty much letting the girls decide where they wanted to go and doing and seeing what they wanted to their heart's content. They had taken a boat tour on the Seine, had gone up the elevator on the Eiffel Tower, had lunch at the restaurant on the upper platform, had walked the streets and the cemetery of Quartier Montmartre, had seen churches and other typical landmarks of the city, had taken a short but rather expensive shopping trip along the Champs Elysee and had found a riverside restaurant for dinner.

It had been a glorious day and a wonderful experience as a family. It had done for Roger exactly what he had expected to achieve today. His mind had been completely focused on being a father and a husband today and he hadn't wasted a single thought on tennis or on any other responsibilities still pending for that matter. It left him in the right mindset to approach tomorrow's final calmly and with the utmost confidence. 

In the process of clearing his mind, he had also completely forgot about his media manager's request and only remembered about it late in the evening when he, Mirka and the girls decided to call it a night and go to sleep. But as the man had neither tried to call him again, nor left a message for him, Roger assumed whatever it was he had wanted to show him and talk to him about, hadn't been that important after all. And tomorrow he certainly had more important things to do than listen to the rambles of the media manager about something he had deemed somehow inappropriate enoug h for Roger to be bothered with. Tomorrow all his thoughts would be on tennis... and on winning that final.

#*#*#*#*#

Rafa's Saturday maybe wasn't as packed as Roger's – at least not when it came to media and sponsorship responsibilities. But it had been over just as quickly and it had been an enjoyable day at that. 

It had started out like any other morning of a tournament day at Roland Garros. Breakfast with his team at the hotel, then a little over an hour and a half at the tournament grounds for practice, afterwards a shower and then lunch. That had been the point where things had slightly veered off from his usual routine. 

As a whole portion of his extended family had traveled to Paris to see tomorrow's match, he spend the majority of his Saturday, showing members of his family around the grounds of Roland Garros, taking them sightseeing in Paris and going to different restaurants for lunch and dinner with the whole group of them. It had mostly been a belated birthday party for him, as he had turned 33 only a couple of days prior to the final and he was happy and glad for the chance to spend a belated celebration with the majority of his family. 

It could have turned into an epic and very, very late night out but neither his uncle nor his physio had been willing to go along with that idea and in the end Rafa was grateful. He could celebrate with his family all he wanted once the final was over and hopefully he would not only hold the tournament trophy in his hands for the 12th time but he would have also managed to equal Roger's record in Grand Slam title. If that wasn't cause for a celebration, Rafa truly had no idea what was.

But it wasn't until they returned to the hotel after dinner at around 11 pm on the insistence of his uncle mostly that Carlos of all people had put his foot down and had declared the family outing over. By Spanish standards it was still very early but Rafa had a big day ahead of him tomorrow and he needed time to rest, regroup, calm down and get himself into the right mindset for the final. 

Carlos had stayed with him for a little while longer, wanting to go over the match plan for the next day and talking tactics again. It wasn't really necessary, at least that was the way Rafa felt about him. Some journalist had once called the tournament grounds of Roland Garros his domain, another had titled it his home and even his living room. Either way he felt good here, welcome and playing Roger of all people felt almost as familiar as brushing his own teeth in the morning by now. He had done it so many times before, he could do it again tomorrow.

While Carlos had done most of the talking, Rafa had mostly listened. Or actually he had been trying very hard not to listen and had been lost in his own thoughts while Carlos was supposedly going on and on about how he needed to focus and what he was supposed to do or not do to win this important match tomorrow. It didn't take long for Carlos to realize that Rafa had zoned out into his own little private world of thought and an exasperated sigh was what brought the younger man back to the here and now and made him smile apologetically at his trainer. Carlos wasn't exactly happy with him but couldn't hide a mild tone of amusement.

“You weren't even listening, Rafa.”

“I'm sorry, Carlos. But you don't have to worry. I'm ready for the match tomorrow. Everything will be fine. It will be good. I promise. You will see.”


	4. Losing equilibrium

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised heres the chapter where the action starts.  
> So so nervous about this one... :-?  
> Fair warning - there's some blood and mildly graphic description of injury in this one.  
> None of it too bad though, at least I don't think so.  
> I really hope you enjoy it. Let me know please. 
> 
> <>°O°<>

The final had not been progressing in Roger's favor this far. It wasn't exactly a disaster yet as they were still in the second set and he still had enough chances to turn the tide and achieve a positive outcome for himself. It wasn't like he had never done it before but then again he had never managed something like this under these particular circumstances. Accumulating the facts that this was Roland Garros and it was Rafa he was playing against, the odds weren't exactly in his favor. But of course that didn't mean it was impossible...

They were on Rafa's serve at 5:4 with Rafa serving for the set and Roger had little doubt about the fact that this second set was a goner. He told himself to stay calm, to see it through and put all his focus and effort into the next, hopefully not yet decisive set. It was a special day, a special occasion and the last thing he planned to do was to give up without a fight. 

Rafa had managed two points on his serve, which meant he had won half the game – and the set as well of course – when it happened. It was a short but loud and very low rumble that seemed to vibrate through the stadium and then all hell broke loose. Suddenly people were yelling and screaming, there was commotion within the stands that quickly slid into utter panic as smoke seemed to suddenly come from everywhere at once. Roger stared for a quick moment, his gaze focusing on the player's box where his wife was. She was there, confused, a little afraid maybe but definitely okay and that was all he needed to know to feel reassured for the moment. 

When he looked back at the other end of the court opposite the net, confusion showed on his face.  
Across the net Rafa was on his knees, an expression of utter shock and disbelief on his face. Roger frowned. Whatever had happened in the stands that caused the panic that seemed to have taken a hold of the spectators hadn't really infringed on the court but Rafa seemed affected none the less. As Roger was pretty sure it had been some kind of minor explosion, maybe there had been some stray pieces of debris, something that had caused this strange reaction from Rafa. Either way there was only one way to find out.

A sudden sense of urgency send Roger into a jog. He dropped his racket at his bench on the way past the net and crossed the other side of the court to get to the baseline and to his opponent. With all the chaos ensuing around them, nobody seemed to have noticed yet that something was wrong with Rafa or maybe people cared about themselves first and others second. Roger couldn't exactly blame them. But he was here, he was close and he had noticed. He couldn't very well ignore his fallen rival.

Getting closer now he realized that it wasn't just shock or confusion visible on Rafa's face though he could clearly detect those emotions as well. But they were mixed with something else, something more pronounced and stark. It was pain that showed on his opponents face and judging from Rafa's facial expression it wasn't simply something minor... Roger quickened his step and with only a few meters between them now, realized that Rafa had one hand on his lower back, clutching a spot right next to his spine tightly. Roger felt a cold knot form in his stomach... This wasn't good... He came to a full stop less than two feet in front of Rafa, who had yet to acknowledge his presence. All the chaos around them faded into the background as Roger's sole focus was on the younger man in this moment.

“Rafa? Are you okay? Is something wrong?”

He didn't get a vocal response from the younger man but Rafa finally seemed to realize he was there. It took an agonizingly long time though before the younger man finally looked up at him, that pained grimace on his face getting worse. Their eyes locked for what felt like a full minute though surely it weren't more than a few seconds and then Rafa pulled the hand that had been clutching that spot on his lower back away and to the front, holding it out for Roger to see. The appendage came away smudged in crimson. They both stared at it.

The moment seemed frozen and time seemed to stand still. But it didn't last for long. To Roger it felt like it happened in slow motion, probably a last remnant of that disconnected feeling of time and even sound standing still around them. The bloodstained hand Rafa still held out to him started to tremble slightly all of a sudden and then the younger man lost his balance, slipping sideways and showing no signs whatsoever of trying to brace the fall he was about to take.

Roger couldn't react in time. Rafa landed on his side with a pained grunt that dazed him for the briefest of seconds before he got both his bearings and his breathing back under control. He tried to get back up on one elbow to level himself into a sitting position but failed miserably. The action seemed to have spent whatever remnants of energy and willpower had been left and Roger could practically watch the power draining out of the younger man, who let his head drop to the sandy surface in defeat. Rafa tried to awkwardly reach the free arm he had not ended up lying on around back to the spot where the blood had come from but he had a hard time forcing his limbs to comply and ended up giving up halfway, the free arm resting somewhere between his side and his back, utterly useless in the pursuit of stemming the flow of blood from his injured back.

All Roger had been able to do so far was watch in morbid fascination. He needed a few moments and the sudden realization that Rafa was in desperate need for help, to shake himself out of his trance. When he finally did, his body reacted on autopilot. He stepped around the younger man, grabbed the nearest object he could use as a makeshift bandage – which ended up to be Rafa's own towel, abandoned by the ball boys that had scurried off into all directions – and dropped to his knees behind the other man, his tone of voice level but demanding.

“Leave it be. Let me look.”

Rafa's free hand twitched back in response as if he was trying to either reach for the wound again or maybe tried to pull up his shirt a little so Roger could have a look at whatever it was they were dealing with here. Whatever Rafa's reasoning, he didn't manage to get the limb to cooperate and instead ended up in the same position as before only overly exerted and in more pain than before, judging from his soft moans and the harsh breathing.

Roger could smell the blood before he even looked down at the younger man's back. He had to swallow hard to force down the bile that was rising in his throat. Looking at Rafa's back only made matters worse. He couldn't even see the injury. All that he could see was blood. And there was a lot of it. It had already soaked through almost half the back of Rafa's aquamarine shirt that was sticking to his body like somebody had glued it there.

Roger felt a sudden wave of disgust. He knew Rafa, he liked the man and certainly didn't mind spending time together off court at sponsorship or charity functions. He had enjoyed the other man's presence at those events, liked the way Rafa had always managed to stay patient and professional but cheeky and light hearted at the same time whenever they had been doing one of those ridiculous Nike promos and he certainly was no stranger to physical contact with Rafa.

But this, this was different. This wasn't like a hug at the net after finishing a match or being pretty much right there in the adjacent room while the other one took a shower. This was an injury, a devastating one from the looks of it and Roger had a hard time to reach out a hand without thinking and touch the bloodied clothes Rafa was wearing. After all they were neither family nor friends nor was Roger a medical professional. He shouldn't have had to do this.

It took force and a mental kick in the butt to push the offending thought aside. He was the only one here right now and Rafa needed his help. If he wouldn't do it, nobody would and that most certainly meant that the horrifying wound would keep bleeding... up to the point where Rafa finally passed out from it... or worse. That dreadful picture was the last push Roger needed to overcome his anxiety and uncertainty. He reached out, grabbed the hem of Rafa's soiled shirt and pushed it up.

His ministrations elicited a groan from the younger man, one he tried very hard to reign in. He could see Rafa's free hand balling into a fist and his whole body tensing up as the fabric of the shirt passed over the still heavily bleeding injury. Now, with the shirt out of the way, Roger could see and it left him feeling even more nauseous. He was looking at a knife wound and a deep and awful one at that. It was almost three inches long, jagged at the edges and bleeding profusely. Roger didn't have to think twice about what to do.

Using both hands he balled up the towel he still held and without waiting any longer pushed down on the gaping hole still leaking crimson at an alarming rate. The only warning he gave to Rafa was a breathless apology.

“I'm so sorry but I have to...”

A hoarse cry of pain escaped the younger mans lips and Roger could feel Rafa's body tremble beneath his fingers as the sudden pressure on the deep wound caused additional stress and pain on Rafa's already weakened system. He was panting now, his free hand had dropped from his leg to the ground where he dug his fingers into the red clay, seemingly looking for something to hold onto while he tried to find a way to somehow deal with this new wave of pain. He didn't manage very well and Roger couldn't blame the younger man. He could only imagine how much what he did hurt Rafa but it had to be done. There was no way he could simply leave this devastating wound bleeding until the chaos in the stands had died down and a medic would finally appear at his side to help. Still Rafa seemed determined to find some way out of his misery and that certainly didn't make it easier for Roger.

“Stop... Please... Hurts...”

The three breathless words in English were followed by a couple more, barely comprehensible words that Roger assumed were Spanish. It was either a plea or a profanity but it didn't matter anyway. Roger didn't understand and even if he had, there was nothing that Rafa could say that would stop him from applying pressure to the stab wound that was slowly draining the younger man's blood from his body. He needed to do this until help arrived. It was pretty much the only chance there was to make sure Rafa would be okay...

“I know, Rafa. I know. Help is on the way. Just try to hold still and relax. They'll be here soon, they'll take good care of you. You'll be fine...”

Rafa managed to shift ever so slightly, turning his body further on his back which gave him the opportunity to look at Roger. He gave the other man a barely noticeable nod and the smallest of smiles before screwing up his face in pain yet again and shutting his eyes tightly as a new wave of agony rolled over him. All Roger was left with was to keep pressure on the wound and watch Rafa as he battled through the onslaught of pain, hoping and praying that his words wouldn't turn out to be one big white lie.


	5. (Minutes) 10 to 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some more descriptions of injury in this one, but mostly hurt/comfort.  
> Thanks to everyone who read, reviewed and left kudos.  
> You make me very happy :)  
> Hope you still like it
> 
> <>°O°<>

Ten minutes had passed. In the overall scheme of things that was practically no time at all but to Roger it felt like a damn eternity and an agonizing one at that. Nobody had come to help and he was still kneeling their behind his injured opponent, applying pressure to a wound he had no business attending to in the first place because he was neither trained nor prepared to, using a sweaty towel as an inadequate bandage and listening to Rafa's sounds of pain growing both weaker and more desperate with every passing minute. 

He wasn't sure how much longer he could just sit here like this, waiting, hoping. His hand that was balled up into the towel, pushing down hard on the wound in Rafa's back had started to feel numb and he was sure there was a cramp waiting in his very near future. It would have been worth it had applying pressure like this actually been successful and helped with Rafa's condition. But no matter how hard Roger tried – and by now he really didn't dare push down on the wound any harder as the last thing he wanted was to aggravate Rafa's condition any further – the bleeding just wouldn't stop.

He stared at the clock in the corner of the court again. 11 minutes. As many minutes as Rafa had won French Open titles... The thought came unwanted and Roger had to reign in a hysteric chuckle that threatened to escape his lips. Here he was, right in the middle of this utter chaos and devastation, pressing a sweaty towel to the injured and bleeding back of his biggest rival on the tour, thinking thoughts that if he told them to anyone would probably make them believe he had lost his mind... Roger swallowed hard and took in a deep breath trying hard to ignore the coppery smell so close to him. He needed to focus. For Rafa's sake.

Unlike Roger who was anxiously counting even the seconds passing by while waiting for additional help to arrive, Rafa had completely lost any sense of time whatsoever. It wasn't just that though. His senses were in disarray altogether, making it very hard for him to comprehend where he was, why and how he had come to be here. Reason eluded him but he knew one thing with absolute certainty. He was in a world of pain, a kind of pain that was both excruciating and relentless at the same time.

He hurt all over, every last muscle in his body tense and strained. His lungs were burning from the simple yet monumental task to force air in and out of them. But his back was the worst. It felt like somebody had lit him on fire and skin, tissue and bone were slowly burning and melting away. He had tried to escape, had tried to squirm away, tried to get away from the pain but his body simply wouldn't comply with the orders his brain send and then there was the additional agony of somebody pushing into the molten fire relentlessly never letting go no matter how desperately he pleaded.

Screaming was an impossible task as well. He simply didn't find enough air in his lungs or strength in his body to do so. There was no outlet for the pain, no way to send a desperate call for help. All he was reduced to where a couple of pitiful moans and a sob in between. The surface he lay on felt soft and sticky, he could easily dig his fingers into it but blindly grabbing at it brought no comfort whatsoever either. 

His strength was waning and he was acutely aware of it, aware of the strength just fading away like it was seeping out of him somehow. But it made matters easier as well. It dulled everything around him – including the pain. A sudden wave of calm washed over him accompanied by a sense of clarity. Everything around him suddenly felt strangely subdued. Like this wasn't reality but some sort of TV show he was simply watching instead of living and he had just dialed down both the brightness and the volume of.

The pain was a little more bearable this way but everything else seemed to fade alongside with it. He could barely hear anything but the rushing of his own blood in his ears. He felt cold all of a sudden, hollow somehow but he was also more acutely aware of his surroundings. He still had no recollection of how the hell he came to be where he was but at least he remembered where he was. This was Paris, Roland Garros, the day of the final... 

With that realization came the memory of Roger. He had been there, had been close... Rafa tried to turn to look further behind him where he believed to have seen Roger last but his body only sluggishly complied with the order his brain send out. He finally managed, sending a red hot stab of pain through his lower back and abdomen and gasped for breath before letting it back out in a hiss of pain again. At least he was rewarded for his effort and painful struggle. Roger's face appeared in his line of sight. 

Rafa tried for a smile but failed miserably. He barely even managed to get the other man's name out and was immediately shut down by Roger. It didn't come out harshly or unfriendly though. Roger wasn't telling him off. For some strange reason it sounded more like he was concerned about him... The tone of voice however was the only thing that truly registered with Rafa. He could see the other man's lips moving but he couldn't make out the words over the rushing in his own ears. 

It didn't matter anyway. He felt tired and cold but calm and the pain seemed to keep dulling down, leaving a strange numbness behind instead. He needed to tell somebody about that, needed to let somebody know what was happening to him as long as he still had the strength to do so and Roger seemed to be the only one around. Rafa tried to make sense of the jumbled mess that was his mind right now, trying to find the correct English words to let the older man know about his predicament.

“Roger...”

“Shh. Don't talk, Rafa. Save your strength.”

“I...I feel cold. My back feels... feels funny. Sticky...”

He didn't remember... Rafa no longer remembered the reason he was lying here injured, didn't remember what had happened to him. Roger swallowed down the lump forming in his throat. Rafa was getting confused and that definitely was a very, very bad sign. The fact that the younger man felt cold and seemed to have a hard time even forming the few simple words in a language that wasn't his native tongue caused another cold, hard knot to form in Roger's stomach. With every last drop of blood seeping into the towel Roger kept firmly pressed on the wound in Rafa's back, the Spaniard seemed to be slipping further and further away. 

He couldn't change that, he could do nothing else to help or to prolong the inevitable loss of consciousness but he needed to stay calm. If he panicked, how the hell was Rafa supposed to keep his composure? Roger didn't even try for a smile. He was pretty sure Rafa was too far out of it to register the gesture anyway. Instead he spoke a little louder, a little slower a little more accentuated, hoping to reach the younger man in his confused and dazed state.

“It's okay, Rafa. Don't think about it. It will be fine, I promise.”

“My... my legs are... tingly...”

The words were so thick with accent that Roger could barely make any sense of them. When he did, he felt a cold shiver run down his spine. A tingling in the legs could most definitely be explained by some sort of nerve problem. Of course he was no doctor and there were probably at least a dozen other explanations but given the nature of Rafa's injury and the fact how close the wound was to the spine, Roger immediately feared that either he had done something devastatingly wrong while keeping pressure on the wound or Rafa had aggravated his injury when turning to face him. Or maybe it was just a side effect of the blood loss. Either way things were going downhill fast and somebody better equipped to handle the situation then him needed to take over, take charge and make sure that Rafa would come out of this whole mess alive and well!

His eyes scanned the stands and the entrance to the court again but still there was no sign of a doctor or a medic or even a damn physio, anyone who was better trained and equipped to handle this medical emergency than him. The initial commotion in the stand seemed to have died down a little though and the smoke from what he believed to have been an explosion had cleared somewhat. A lot of the seats were empty, exits packed with people but here and there, there were little groups of people huddled together, some of them shocked, some of them crying and some of them bleeding... There had to be emergency personnel around if others had gotten hurt as well, Roger was sure of that. So he did the only thing he could think of. He called for help – loudly and desperately.

“Help! We need help here!”

His plea for assistance was in vain. If anyone had heard him, they didn't react but Roger highly doubted anyone had heard his call over all those people in the stands either trying to get the hell out of the stadium or waiting for help themselves... He sighed deeply and looked down at his fallen rival. He had only been distracted with his call for help for a couple of seconds but it had been too long already. Down in front of him he watched in horror as Rafa's eyelids flickered closed. Roger's reaction was instantaneous and driven by pure terror. He took one hand off the towel he was still holding firmly in place against the wound and couldn't help the feeling of nausea when he let go of the soaked towel and realized his fingers came away wet and sticky. There was blood on his hands... Rafa's blood. 

He pushed the thought aside with all the force he could muster, grabbed Rafa by the shoulder with his blood smeared hand and shook the younger man – forcefully. Rafa reacted but it was a slow, sluggish reaction and the fact that he didn't even seem to register any pain at the sudden and rough manhandling only caused Roger's feeling of sickness and fear to increase. Whatever strength and fight there was still left in Rafa was quickly succumbing to the injury that had yet to be treated... The younger man's eyes eventually opened again, blinking once, twice, a third time before they refocused on Roger.

“Damn it, Rafa! Don't you dare fall asleep on me! Just hold on, please!”

“It's... it's okay. I... I'll be... fine.”

“Yes, yes of course. Just hold on.”

Roger risked a quick glance at the on court clock, his eyes leaving Rafa for just a second before he looked back down again, making sure the Spaniard still had his eyes open, focused on him and was still conscious and at least somewhat alert. The look at the clock however brought only dread to Roger. Twenty minutes had passed.


	6. (Minutes) 25 to 38

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everybody - here's a new chapter for you.  
> Thanks again to everyone who read, reviewed and/or left kudos. You make me happy!  
> Some more blood and a lot of drama in this one.
> 
> Rafa's question roughly translates to "Where did you come from?"
> 
> <>°O°<>

Twenty five minutes had passed and things had taken a turn for the worse. It was not the sudden dramatic deterioration like it happened in the movies. It was a slow, subtle progression from bad to worse that one only realized was actually happening when it was way, way too late already. By now the feeling of warm, sticky wetness was a constant on Roger's hands holding onto the saturated towel he still pressed tightly to Rafa's back. Nobody had come, nobody was here to help and Roger could just sit and watch.

There was a nasty tingling in his feet and lower legs from sitting on his knees in the same awkward position for so long. It felt like a thousand tiny needle pricks all at once and he knew his legs were starting to fall asleep beneath him. His hands and forearms were barely faring any better. Keeping them balled into the soggy towel and keeping a steady amount of pressure on Rafa's back was taking a toll on his muscles causing little cramps and aches. He wouldn't be able to keep this up for much longer, he had no illusions about that.

But he was still way better of than the Spaniard. Rafa was still looking at him but his gaze had lost a lot of it's original focus. Roger wasn't even sure the younger man was still aware of his presence. Rafa's eyelids kept drooping and falling shut from time to time but so far Roger had managed to shake him out of it every time. He had to do it more frequently over the course of the last minutes though and every time he did Rafa blinked up at him, the reaction followed by a couple of incomprehensibly whispered words in what Roger assumed was either Spanish or Mallorquin. He couldn't help the frustration he felt and he decided it was best to vent it instead of bottling it up and risking to break under the continued strain sooner or later. The next time he had to shake Rafa back into the world of consciousnesses it was accompanied by a couple of angry words. 

“Please, Rafa... Don't do this... I have never seen you shy away from a fight even once in your entire career. Don't start now... Fight this! Damn it...”

Rafa gave no indication whatsoever that he had heard him and Roger could only hope he had managed to get through to the younger man. He wasn't very confident about that though. He kept sitting there, kept pressure on the wound, kept ignoring the warm stickiness on his fingers and kept watching Rafa like a hawk, shaking at his shoulders forcefully whenever his eyelids threatened to flutter closed. He was so focused and preoccupied with this vital task, he didn't even realize there were footsteps approaching. 

Roger only realized he wasn't alone any more when a shadow above him darkened Rafa's facial features. He looked up and for a very brief moment he was very sure he was imagining things, seeing things that weren't really there. The detached feeling of actually hallucinating lasted all of two seconds until the perceived phantom he was sure his overexerted brain had made up actually reacted to his disbelieving words.

“Carlos. How...!

“Using elbows and determination. It doesn't matter... What the hell happened?”

“I... I don't know. It all happened so fast. I can't stop the bleeding...”

The man standing in front of him, demanding answers Roger didn't have was Carlos Moya, Rafa's trainer. Roger didn't even think to ask him any further questions. From the sounds of it Carlos had somehow managed to climb down from the stands and onto court. It didn't really matter though. The one thing that did matter was the fact that Roger was no longer alone, no longer solely responsible for Rafa's well-being and for the monumental task of keeping the other man alive... 

Carlos himself didn't ask any questions either. But at the mention of a bleeding he dropped to his knees in front of Rafa, opposite of Roger. He didn't even demand an explanation, obviously assuming that Rafa's injury was somehow elated to whatever attack or accident had happened up in the stands. Roger didn't correct him on that. He couldn't. After all he had no idea what exactly had happened to Rafa in the first place. All he could see and try to handle - with what little knowledge and supplies was at his disposal - were the consequences.

Carlos focus was solely on Rafa now and he used a tone of voice Roger knew all too well. It was the same soft, soothing, gentle tone of voice he used with his children when they were either sick or really scared of something. To Roger's surprise it seemed to do the trick. Not only did Rafa manage to refocus his gaze on Carlos but he also managed a verbal reaction, albeit a hoarse one that was barely more than a whisper.

“Rafa?”

“Carlos... De... de dónde... vienes?”

Rafa took quite a while to string the few little words together and this time Roger had no idea what the Spaniard had been saying as he only managed a reaction in his native tongue by now. Carlos gave Rafa a smile and a soft squeeze to his shoulder in response but didn't actually say anything. His and Roger's eyes met over the fallen figure of the younger man and there were no words necessary for both of them to know how utterly serious the situation was. Roger had to clear his throat before he could explain how Rafa had been deteriorating over the course of the last half hour and what it was he needed Carlos to do in order to help.

“He's pretty out of it... He has a hard time keeping his eyes open. Try to keep him occupied. He can't fall asleep!”

Carlos nodded, his facial features radiating determination and Roger instantly felt a little more relaxed, a little less overwhelmed by this impossible situation. Rafa was in good hands even if Carlos could do just as little for Rafa when it came to emergency care as Roger could. But somehow he was absolutely sure that Carlos would not allow Rafa to just slip away. Not on his watch... 

While he solely focused on the task of keeping the pressure on Rafa's stab wound up, he tried to follow the flow of softly uttered words. It wasn't exactly a conversation though. It was mostly Carlos talking and his voice getting a higher pitch and a more frantic and urgent tone to it the longer he kept talking to the younger man. Rafa barely reacted to most of what Carlos was saying but at least he kept his eyes open for now. Roger took that as a good sign and that was pretty much where the good news ended. He was still unable to stop the bleeding and there was still no medic anywhere in sight...

A couple of agonizing minutes passed this way but even though the situation was still an awful and taxing one, Roger felt himself relax just a fraction. Maybe it was karma or luck had simply run out on them. Or maybe it was the simple fact that no matter how hard he and Carlos tried all their coaxing and talking, soothing and basic first aid could not replace proper medical treatment. Roger barely even registered it at first, the feeling of wetness on his hands all to familiar by now. But something had changed, slowly, unnoticed and devastatingly so.

Roger only realized it when he actually took a good look, refocusing his concentration from Carlos to the soggy piece of fabric in his hands. The towel he had balled up and used to press against the gaping wound was already saturated in blood and gave a squishing sound as Roger pushed down harder. There was a soft moan from Rafa as the additional pressure obviously hurt him but that was the extent of his reaction. Roger looked down at the towel and out of the corner of his eyes he could see Carlos follow his gaze as well. The first droplets of blood were seeping out of the soaked through towel, dropping to the red dirt of the clay court, forming a tiny pool. Roger looked back up, horror shining in his eyes and his gaze met Carlos who was swallowing thickly. His voice was hoarse when he reacted to what just happened. 

“We need a medic. Right now!”

“I'll go. I'll be back in a minute. Stay with him.”

Roger nodded in compliance sheepishly. It wasn't exactly like there was much else he could do but stay here with Rafa... He was anything but convinced however that the older man would actually manage to find somebody qualified to help Rafa within the next sixty seconds. He wasn't even sure he would manage that feat within the next sixty minutes... not after everything that had happened since this whole mess started. Carlos was all strong will and grim determination as he hurried off but even that wouldn't be enough to clear the commotion or the debris – whatever it was that kept the emergency medical personnel from entering the court – away.

Roger's gaze kept wandering between Rafa's face and the slowly growing pool of blood barely right beneath the towel he still held. This time – with his attention divided – he didn't realize in time as Rafa's eyes fell closed yet again and with both hands desperately pressing into the crimson stained towel, Roger had no hand free to shake Rafa again. He could just sit there and wait and hope and pray. He almost jumped out of his skin when Carlos voice seemingly appeared out of nowhere. He looked up and for the second time within the last couple of minutes he was sure he was imagining things. He shook his head forcefully, trying to clear the picture but it didn't disappear. It wasn't a mirage and Roger couldn't help but grin like a stupid idiot. Carlos was back and he was not alone. He had brought two EMTs with him, one of them carrying to bags of medical equipment, the other one holding onto a backboard. Roger breathed a sigh of utter relief and looked at the on court clock again. 38 minutes had passed...


	7. (Minutes) 38 to 51

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! Rafa just won his 3rd round match. I'm happy! :)
> 
> Here's the new chapter for you.  
> It's rather short this time.  
> Some more mentions of blood and medical procedures.  
> You are warned.  
> Hope you like it.
> 
> <>°O°<>

“Thank god you're here... I... I think he lost consciousness...”

It were the first words out of his mouth and of course it wasn't exactly the best way of opening up a line of communication. Carlos stared at him with an expression like Roger had just punched him hard in the gut instead of talking to him and the two EMTs – or more precisely one EMT and one emergency doctor as Roger could tell from their name tags – looked at him in confusion. 

He needed a moment to realize that this was Paris and that these two men's capabilties for the English language was probably pretty limited. Roger switched from English to French shooting Carlos a quick, apologetic look in the process. The Mallorcan probably wouldn't be able to follow from here on out but maybe that wasn't exactly a bad thing. 

“He's bleeding from his lower back. I... I think he was stabbed. It's been almost 40 minutes. He lost a lot of blood...”

“How long has he been unconscious?”

“Two, maybe three minutes. Right before you came.”

With Carlos still standing motionless a few feet away like he had turned into marble all of a sudden, there was enough room for the two medics to kneel down next to Rafa. The EMT had put both the backboard and the blanket down and had taken Carlos former place at Rafa's front. The actual doctor of the two had his medical bags already on the ground and opened before he positioned himself right next to Roger and was looking at him with urgency while giving instructions. 

If either one of the two medical professionals had recognized either him or Rafa, they didn't let it show. Maybe they simply didn't know much of anything about tennis. But then again they hadn't bothered to ask for his or their patient's name. Roger assumed doing such a stressful job day in and day out they were simply unfazed by the facts.

“I need you to move aside.”

“But the bleeding...”

“We'll take it from here.”

The doctor didn't wait for Roger to move but placed both his gloved hands on the soaked through towel. Roger held on for a moment longer, unwilling and somewhat unable to let go after all this time he had knelt next to Rafa keeping pressure on the nasty wound. But he didn't last for much longer as he was bodily shoved aside. It was all professionalism and dispassion from here on out. All that counted was a quick and complete assessment of the medical facts as the two men worked in tandem to give the best and most effective emergency medical care to their patient. 

“I'll pack the wound and put a pressure bandage on it.”

The soiled towel was unceremoniously thrown aside by the emergency doctor and blood started welling up immediately. Roger couldn't help but feel sick at the sight. The doctor had no such problems. Pulling patches of sterile gauze from his medical bag, he started dressing the wound quickly, efficiently and without showing any signs at being unfazed by the gruesome sight. He was done in less than a minute, the bandage new and still stark white, standing out almost appallingly against the bronze tone of Rafa's skin and the blotches of deep crimson on his soiled shirt... Roger watched as the emergency doctor reached for Rafa's shoulder now, carefully and gently rolling the unconscious man on his back.

“Wound is dressed. Get me some vitals.”

“I have tachycardia and hypotension; pulse is 130, BP 80/55. Respiratory rate is at 35. Skin is cold and clammy... Hypovolemic shock?”

“Definitely. I need an IV. Now!”

Roger had followed the quick, clinical exchange between the two men while trying to get back on his feet. His legs were pretty much numb now and utterly unresponsive. It wasn't until a strong hand grabbed him by the upper arm that he actually managed an upward momentum. It was Carlos who seemed to have recovered enough to step up, help Roger out and watch in utter horror as the two medical professionals worked. 

Roger had to swallow hard at the scene. The EMT was quickly checking the back of both of Rafa's hands before moving to the forearms and finally giving a short shake of the head. It was unnerving to watch Rafa lie so utterly still and unresponsive while the two medics worked on stabilizing his condition, throwing medical facts back and forth over his prone form.

“Peripheral veins are no good. Circulation is centralizing. Jugular or femoral?”

“Jugular. It's quicker. We need to move.”

Roger realized in time what the two medics planned on doing and managed to look away in time. He really didn't want to see this... he didn't want to watch while that certainly competent but rather bland EMT pushed a large catheter needle into the vein on Rafa's neck... Carlos – not understanding due to the language barrier – was not as lucky. Next to him Roger could hear the older man give a low sound that emanated somewhere in the back of his throat. He wasn't sure if it was pain, sympathy or nausea but knowing what the emergency doctor was doing right now it was probably a mixture of all three. 

“I have a line in.”

“Good. I'll place the fluids. Get the backboard and a blanket. We need to keep him warm.”

While he was still very much focused on looking anywhere but down at Rafa's prone form, a large bag full of clear fluid was suddenly pushed into Roger's arms without the emergency doctor even looking up at him. He himself was solely focused on Rafa but that didn't mean he was unable to make good use of whatever assets were at his disposal. Right now that meant Roger who was given a curt order and was otherwise completely ignored. 

“Hold this and squeeze. Hard.”

Not for the first time this afternoon Roger reacted on autopilot. He held the plastic bag and did as he had been told, squeezing so hard he feared for just a second that he would manage to actually cause the bag to burst under the pressure. But it didn't happen. All in all the whole scene suddenly seemed very anti climatic. Rafa was still unconscious and showing no signs of awareness whatsoever but he was breathing, there was a stark white and not yet soiled bandage on his stab wound and a tiny fraction of color seemed to have returned to his cheeks already. The only thing marring the image of things actually looking up were the bloodied towel that lay abandoned next to the unresponsive Spaniard, the puddle of wet crimson on the red clay and Roger's own hands leaving pink smudges on the clear plastic bag he held. It was all blood... so much blood...

He was so deeply lost in his own thoughts, he barely registered the ministrations happening at the very end of the bag he held, connecting to the injured Spaniard through the IV tubing. The EMT had brought the required backboard and blanket and the two medics had Rafa placed, wrapped in the woolen blanket and ready for transport with a few practiced movements. It wasn't until somebody tried to take the bag of IV fluids from him that Roger was shaken out of his stupor. His first instinct was to fight until he realized it was the emergency doctor who had taken the bag from him. 

“All class 1 and 2 triage patients go to Georges Pompidou.”

Roger needed a moment to realize the emergency doctor had been speaking to him and he needed even longer to process the information behind the words, which made little to no sense to his overly addled brain. He didn't get a chance for clarification though because the doctor and his EMT were already underway, taking Rafa with them. And then they were gone, disappeared through the very same tunnel he and Rafa had entered the stadium through less than two and a half hours ago. To Roger it felt like a lifetime ago. 

He looked at the on court clock again. 51 minutes had passed.


	8. Dirt washes off more easily than blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A slightly gory title today though for this chapter no real warnings apply.  
> But I'm in a slightly iffy mood having just spent two hours of my life watching so-so tennis that I will never get back.  
> Well I'm doing some high level complaining here and being a bad fangirl on top of it.   
> At least Rafa won but that was not nice to look at...Or am I the only one who feels that way?
> 
> Anyway on with the story.  
> Please somebody let me know if Roger comes off as to OOC in this part. I'm very unsure about it :-?  
> Thank you for the reads and reviews.   
> Hope you like it :)
> 
> <>°O°<>

Roger and Carlos took the same way as the EMTs had - through the tunnel and out of the stadium -   
in stoic silence. They both had a lot to process, a lot to think about. Now that the situation had temporarily resolved itself and Rafa had properly been taken care of, Roger felt void of any emotion. The one thing he did feel was complete and utter exhaustion, and judging from the slumped shoulder, the head hanging low and the way he stumbled on every other step, Carlos wasn't feeling any better. The older man had a grim, almost hardened expression on his face and he looked a lot paler than usual.

Roger had no words of encouragement or reassurance for the other man. He was barely able to keep his own jumbled thoughts in check. It was only seconds ago that the medics had taken Rafa to the hospital, but Roger felt like he had just woken from a nightmare, like the godawful ordeal that had been the last hour had happened to somebody else entirely. But it hadn't... Roger still had the slight tingling in his legs as a stark reminder of that. Not that he had needed it. The memories of what had happened here today would never leave him, not for the rest of his life. Carlos' soft and tired voice pulled Roger from his thoughts.

“The doctors? What did they say?”

“Mostly medical mumbo-jumbo.”

“What did they say about Rafa?!”

“They're taking him to the hospital of Georges Pompidou. That... that's all.”

Carlos' voice had gained sharpness upon his second question but now he simply nodded in response to the information, looking utterly defeated. They had reached the end of the tunnel and turned to the left where the main entrance was. They could see an ambulance, a couple of other emergency vehicles and two white tents dominating the middle portion of the wide plaza. They walked a couple more steps in silence before Carlos suddenly stopped waiting for Roger to look at him. 

“I need to find his family. They have to know.”

“Yes... Yes of course”

“Thank you, Roger. For everything you did for Rafa. You saved his life.”

Roger didn't know how to respond to that heartfelt and genuine expression of thanks. The entire time he had been kneeling down there in the dirt of center court, trying to keep Rafa from bleeding to death, he had never once even entertained the thought that he was being a savior of any kind. He had reacted on instinct and as it turned out it had been the only thing he could do, the only thing any moral person could have done. 

Carlos had stepped closer to him, reaching out a hand for him to shake. It was such a normal every day gesture that neither one of them thought much of anything of it until they were actually up close and personal and Carlos stared at Roger's outstretched hand instead of shaking it. He swallowed hard and Roger followed the older man's gaze. A wave of nausea grabbed a hold of him once more. It had dried and crusted somewhat and some of it had rubbed off on to the IV bag but Rafa's blood was still on his hands... Roger gave a nervous chuckle that was completely void of any humor.

“I... I should get cleaned up...”

“Yes. You do that.”

Before they were in the awkward situation of saying goodbye without any kind of handshake as they were about to part ways yet again, there was a sudden shout somewhere behind them. Both men turned around and could see somebody trying to force his way to the crowd of people gathered on the Plaza. It was Rafa's uncle and former coach, Toni.

“Carlos!”

The Mallorcan quickly turned to Roger and raised a hand as a gesture of goodbye this time, giving him a sad, tired smile and then turned to leave to meet up with Toni. Roger decided to take off into the opposite direction and go in search of his wife. He didn't have to look for her long but he did get a lot of curious and even shocked looks. It wasn't until he found Mirka and saw her relieved smile turn into an expression of absolute horror, that he realized those looks from passers by and bystanders had happened for a reason.

“Roger! Thank god... Are you okay?! You're bleeding!”

“It's not mine...”

“What?!”

“It's not my blood. I... I'm fine.”

“But it's all over your hands and shirt...”

Roger stared down at his hands and shirt and it was only now that he realized that not only had the crimson liquid soaked through the towel and onto the palms of his hands but onto his light blue shirt as well... He kept his eyes fixed on his hands that he held stretched out in front of him and watched in fascination as they started to tremble. His voice followed suit but he still managed to put enough determination into his words to convince his wife though, even though he couldn't muster the energy or the courage to look her in the eyes.

“I'm okay.”

“If it's not yours, then who?!”

“Rafa.”

“Oh... Oh my god... What the hell happened down there?!”

“I don't know...”

Mirka had been very silent after Roger's last statement and he had simply trusted in her to take the lead. He felt utterly spent and all he wanted was a chance to lie down and fall into a deep, dreamless slumber for at least six to eight hours. It was a futile little wish because as exhausted as he felt, his mind was still reeling from everything that had happened and he knew he wouldn't find any sleep this night... 

His wife had not disappointed him. She had taken charge of a situation she barely understood, barely know how to handle and still had done so brilliantly. She didn't know any details of what had come to pass on center court this past hour but she knew it had deeply messed with both her husband's mind and feelings. The bloodied shirt and the drying streaks of dark deep red on his hands were testament enough of that. She had gone to one of the tents where people were provided with water and blankets and counseling if they felt the need for it and had asked one of the members from the French Red Cross for a clean shirt.

She had talked him into changing into the new, clean shirt right there and then and Mirka had been ready to throw out the ruined shirt but Roger had insisted she didn't and she had not had the heart to argue with him right there and then. By some epitome of divine intervention they had managed to find a sympathetic driver, who had brought them back to the hotel and Mirka had been grateful for the fact that not only had their girls decided that they didn't want to watch a boring tennis match today but seemed to still be out in the city without a clue what had happened at the stadium today. Dealing with her devastated husband was one thing. Dealing with two hysteric teenage girls on top of that was too much even for her to handle.

She had ushered Roger into the bathroom, had settled down on the edge of the bathtub and – when he had shown no signs whatsoever of doing anything to clean up the mess that were his hands and forearms right now – had gotten back up, had turned on the water at the sink at a comfortable temperature and had pushed a nail brush and a piece of soap into Roger's hands. No further incentive had been necessary. 

That had been more than five minutes ago and ever since then she stood there leaned against the white tiled wall, watching him scrub away the blood on his forearms, his hands and under his fingernails, draining away in soft pink rivulets and disappearing down the sink like they had never been there in the first place. Blood didn't come off easily. She knew that from personal experience of bringing up four kids who had a talent for scraping their knees or falling from their bikes and whatever else they could think of to ruin their clothes and break their skin... But even knowing that, Mirka was sure Roger had managed to clean of the last remnants of blood about two minutes ago.

But he still stood there, water running, soap bubbling, vigorously scrubbing at his already clean hands until they were all pink and wrinkled. She knew something awful had happened, she knew it had seriously messed him up and she was worried for him but still she didn't push him. If he wanted to talk about this, wanted to confide in her then he would do just that. She trusted him to do so. But she no longer trusted him with the soap and the brush. Stepping up to the sink carefully, she shut down the water and gently took the two cleaning items from him, giving him a small smile and keeping her voice level and soothing.

“Roger, your hands are clean now.”

He looked up and stared at her blankly for a long moment before he managed to shake himself out of whatever it was that had caused this little episode that left him and his thoughts a thousand miles away before he nodded and turned to leave the bathroom. The front of his shirt was covered in splashes and droplets of water but he didn't seem to mind. Mirka followed him slowly, watching him closely as he stepped out into the main room and then just stopped, standing in the middle of the damn hotel room and utterly at a loss what to do with himself now. She sighed softly, no longer able to fight down the urge to pry.

“Roger, please talk to me...”

“I need to... I want to go to the hospital.”

He had turned around abruptly, looking at her with an almost pleading expression that send a shiver down her spine. It was not remotely the reaction she had hoped for and it left her with a profound feeling of dread. She feared she hadn't been insistent enough, hadn't been thorough enough and had somehow managed to overlook the fact that while the blood, he had claimed wasn't his, had actually come off of him, there was some other injury she had yet to find out about. But it was nothing like that and even if his request seemed weird to her, she was still glad it was simply the extraordinary situation and his frail state of mind instead of a real, physical injury that had brought on the request. If he only wanted to do this to ease both his mind and heart, she was gladly willing to comply with his wishes.

“The hospital? Why? Are... are you hurt after all?! I knew it!”

“It's not that. I just... I need to know that Rafa is okay...”


	9. Last to know

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just now realized that I have no idea if any of Rafa's family members actually speak any English.  
> Well doesn't matter, this is my story and here they do :P.
> 
> The clichee ER doctor in this one is sort of based on RL experience. They can be really insensitive idiots sometimes...
> 
> Thanks for all the reviews and reads and I hope you still enjoy the story. 
> 
> <>°O°<>

“Carlos?! Did you find him? Did you find Rafa? Is he okay? Where have you been?! We we're worried...”

Toni Nadal's questions were raining down on Carlos and he had a hard time even processing what the older man wanted from him, let alone answering any of Toni's pressing questions. He knew he had to. Toni was family to Rafa and both his parents and his sister were around here somewhere as well, deserving an answer just as much. He simply didn't know how to say the words. How did you tell parents, a younger sister, any close family member for that matter, that one of their loved ones was on the way to a hospital in critical condition, having lost copious amounts of blood and was both unconscious and unresponsive when the medics had finally found a way to get to him... How was he supposed to put this into words when he himself could barely comprehend the facts?

Even the thought of seeing Rafa like this – unresponsive, pale, bloody and vulnerable and the memory of watching that medic with the giant hollow needle that he had so unceremoniously stuck into the young man's neck without eliciting even so much as a wince from Rafa made him feel nauseous yet again and send a shiver down his spine. Of course he couldn't tell Toni about any of this. Rafa's family deserved the truth but they also deserved to be spared the gory details of what had happened. At least they wouldn't hear them from him. He assumed some doctor at the hospital would not be as sensitive. The sudden loud voice of the older man snapped Carlos out of his thoughts and for somebody just being caught in the middle of a godawful memory he felt he managed to stall and evade Toni's questions quite well.

“Carlos! Snap out of it! Talk to me.”

“Rafa's on his way to a hospital nearby. They told me the name. You should get the rest of the team and his family. We should go.”

“How bad is it?”

“I don't know, Toni. I'm not a doctor.”

The older man stared at him in disbelief and Carlos truly wished he would be better at keeping at least something akin to a poker face. Toni didn't say it in so many words but he didn't have to. He was seeing right through Carlos tactic and he wasn't having any of that. Instead he was pushing the matter and finally Carlos relented, revealing what little information he actually had on Rafa's condition.

“But you were there! How was he?”

“It's bad, okay... It's... really serious.”

“Come on. Let's go.”

There was no outward sign of Toni being affected or disturbed by the news but Carlos knew better than to be fooled by that. They crossed the plaza and reached the far end of it where the rest of the family – namely Maribel and Rafa's parents – had gathered. The rest of the team was unharmed and somewhere about the Plaza but it didn't exactly matter right now. Rafa was injured and that was a family matter. Hadn't it been for the almost 20 years Carlos knew Rafa by now, he would have offered to stay behind and leave the family with some privacy to deal with this on their own. Maybe that was still the best course of action, but Carlos couldn't bring himself to do it. He had been there, he had seen how badly Rafa had been injured and he needed to see this through. Luckily it seemed there was no argument necessary about that. 

Rafa's family was otherwise occupied at the moment anyway. When the first explosion had happened in the stadium, Carlos had been right there, sitting with the rest of Rafa's family. They had all gotten out of it unscathed, at least almost allof them. Maribel had been hit by some stray piece of debris that had left an ugly and heavily bleeding cut on her right forearm. She had been level headed about it, had wrapped her sweater around it and had announced that it was probably a good idea for her to find an ambulance and a medic to take care of her. 

Carlos – torn between helping the injured girl and making sure that Rafa was okay down there on court, had decided to go with Maribel first. He had known all too clearly that Rafa never would have forgiven him if something had happened to his little sister. It had taken a while to get out of the stadium with so many panicked and frantic people streaming towards the exits but finally they had managed, they had found a medic who had assured him he would take care of her and only then had Carlos returned to the stadium to look for Rafa. He hadn't seen Maribel since and as they approached the little group of Rafa's family now, he was glad to find Maribel with them, her arm bandaged and in a sling but otherwise okay. Before offering so much as a word of hello or an explanation for his long absence, Carlos made sure Rafa's little sister was indeed alright.

“Are you okay? 

“I will be. They want to take me to a hospital nearby though, to take an x-ray and make sure the bone is unaffected. It's a pretty deep cut and they just want to make sure there are no complications from it... Did you find my brother?”

Of course Maribel would ask the one decisive question right away without giving him so much as a moment to chose his words carefully and come up with the least unsettling way to let her and her parents know what had happened to Rafa. He shared a quick, somewhat helpless look with Toni before he decided that keeping his answers vague and short was the best course of action for now. He really didn't want to go into detail about any of this. After all he had barely understood anything the two medics had been talking about and all he could do was guess what had happened to Rafa and how exactly it had affected him. He didn't want to do that. There were medical professionals handling Rafa's treatment right at this very moment just a couple of miles away and Carlos wanted them to give a medically founded and useful answer instead of making a somewhat educated guess. 

“Yes... Yes I did.”

“Well where is he?!”

“On the way to a hospital as well.”

“What... How...”

“Why don't we go and let the doctors explain that to us. Come on.”

This time Toni had jumped in, coming to Carlos aid and even though Rafa's family was clearly looking for answers, neither one of them debated the proposal. It wasn't as easily done as it had sounded as all modes of transportation away from the tennis center and back into town seemed to be in utter disarray, not available or simply overrun by the amount of people streaming out of the stadium. Eventually they managed to secure a cab though and Carlos told the driver the very name of the hospital Roger had provided him with.

Upon arrival at the hospital Georges Pompidou they were greeted by the sight of utter chaos. The emergency room was overflowing with patients, nurses were running around in a frenzy like nervous chicken and trying to find even one of them that wasn't busy, in between patients or simply completely overwhelmed and overworked in this unique situation turned out to be a challenge. Finally they found a helpful nurse at the reception desk who – although clearly exhausted and on probably her second shift and her 10th cup of coffee – provided them with a small smile and a friendly attitude.

“Can I help you?”

“We are looking for our son...”

“Was he among the trauma victims from the tennis center?”

It had been Rafa's mother who had spoken to the nurse and that particular question caught her completely off guard and send an icy shiver down her spine. Nobody had said anything about any kind of trauma. She had assumed her son had been injured in a similar way as Maribel. She didn't know how to answer, didn't actually want to but there was no need. Carlos had stepped up to her and out of the corner of her eyes she could see him give a quick nod before he answered the question verbally as well.

“Yes, he was.”

“What's the name?”

“Nadal.”

That produced an instantaneous result. The nurse looked up from her massive amount of paperwork, looked from one of them to the next and got up so abruptly she almost knocked over the chair she had been sitting on.

“Oh. Yes. Of course. I'll get Dr. Allard for you. He's the attending physician. Just a moment.”

She hurried off down a long corridor and disappeared out of sight. As soon as she had gone Ana Maria turned to face Carlos angrily fully set on demanding a complete and honest answer but it was Toni who responded to her reproachful question.

“Why didn't you tell me this?!”

“What for? There's nothing you could have done about it. You know now.”

“What exactly is it you two are not telling me?!”

She never got an answer to her question as the desk nurse chose this particular moment to return with the doctor in tow who stepped up to them giving them a professional small smile that never quite reached his eyes and then introduced himself in English with a thick French accent, speaking slowly and measured while doing so, obviously assuming there was some sort of language barrier there. What followed next was a short but very unpleasant discussion about hospital procedure.

“Good day, I'm Dr. Allard, I have been treating Rafael.”

“How is he?”

“Why don't you come along. We can step into my office. You'll have some privacy there.”

“What would we need privacy for?! Why can't you just tell us?”

“Please, calm yourself. This is a hospital and as you can see we are very busy right now. I would appreciate it if you behaved accordingly. Please just follow me and try not to waste any of my time. I have patients to see.”

“You can start with her. She had a deep cut on her arm and the EMTs feared it might have cut through to the bone. She was supposed to get an x-ray for that. And while you're taking care of that why don't you tell us how Rafael is doing?”

The doctor gave Toni – who had suggested the physician treat Maribel's injury – a hard stare and it seemed like he actually considered denying the young woman treatment for just the briefest of moments. But finally the medical professional relented though he didn't exactly tell them in so many words. He stopped a nurse that was about to rush by, speaking to her in rapid French before addressing the family again, switching back to his heavily accented English and simply turning to leave and walk back down the corridor without waiting to see if they were following. 

“Louise, I need you and the portable x-ray in exam 5 in about 15 minutes.”

“Yes, doctor.”

“Come along then.”

15 minutes... it was the one thing Carlos and Rafa's family had been able to make out amongst the few words that had been rapidly exchanged between the nurse and the doctor. They shared concerned looks among one another while hurrying to catch up with the doctor who was already halfway down the corridor where he had stopped and had opened the door to one of the exam rooms. The question they were all asking themselves was the same – what could have possibly happened to Rafa that his doctor would need fifteen long minutes for to explain to them... 

They were about to find out, that much was for sure. The doctor was impatiently waiting for them at the door, ushering them all into the room, Maribel first. He pointed to the exam table in the middle of the blank room and gestured for her to sit down on it. She complied, albeit reluctantly and held on to the sling protecting her arms while keeping a close eye on Dr. Allard, waiting for him to continue and finally tell them what they had come here for.

“Sit down, Mademoiselle. I will have a look at your arm in a little while.”

The doctor busied himself at the small computer standing inside the room, picked up a patient file, put it back down again, typed a couple of lines and finally turned back around, facing the entire group of family members. He didn't dwell on any kind of pleasantries to soften the blow but simply stated the medical facts, as devastating as they were...

“As you seemed completely oblivious to any initial emergency treatment performed and the details of Rafael's injury, I can only assume you were separated during the commotion at the tennis center and have yet to be informed about it all. The injury is explained rather quickly. The consequences arising from it however, that is a different matter. Rafael was stabbed in the lower left quadrant of his back with a blade about three inches wide and ten inches long and I'm afraid whoever did this knew exactly how to handle the weapon to inflict the utmost amount of damage...”


	10. The facts of the matter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a rather long chapter with lots of medical stuff in it.  
> I researched to the best of my ability and I hope it all makes sense.  
> Also Roger makes an appearance. 
> 
> Thanks so much to anyone who reviewed and read and I hope you enjoy the update.
> 
> <>°O°<>

It had taken a lot of charming and even a tiny bit of bribery to get the head nurse at reception of the hospital Georges Pompidou to get her to tell Roger where exactly Rafa was being treated right now and where he was most likely to encounter a member of his team or family. Mirka had come with him but had opted out of entering the hospital with him. She had stayed behind at the cab with the driver and had told him she would wait for him here.

He didn't blame her for the decision. He had a lot of respect for it, actually and he understood. It wasn't like he and Rafa were friends exactly. There was no animosity either. It was... something in between, something that was hard to describe but it certainly wasn't the kind of relationship that usually warranted a personal visit to the other one while they were injured and in a hospital. But there was nothing normal about this situation and he knew that he would find no peace of mind whatsoever until he knew for sure that what little he had been able to do on court to help, had paid of and Rafa would be okay.

He had been directed to the surgical ward and had been told there was a private waiting room for family members. It hadn't exactly been a lot of information to go on but it turned out he was lucky. The surgical ward itself was not an area restricted to medical personnel or family members only and as he walked down the deserted corridor now, he found a familiar face. It was Carlos again, who had just returned from a small lounge to get a cup of coffee. Surprise and wariness were written all over his face as he detected Roger walking up to him.

“Roger. What are you doing here?”

““Carlos...I... I just needed to know... How is he?”

“Still in surgery. It will be a couple more hours before they are... done. That knife did a lot of damage...”

“Will you tell me? Please?”

Carlos seemed to debate his answer internally for a few long seconds before he finally nodded. Roger wasn't sure if it was gratitude because he had assisted with the first aid after the initial attack on Rafa or because there would have to be a press release and Roger would find out sooner or later anyway. He didn't care which one it was though, as long as he found out the details of the younger man's condition.

“From what they could tell us, whoever did this used a very sharp, long weapon to attack Rafa. And according to the doctors he used a lot of force... He missed the spine by only about an inch but nicked an artery, the small intestine and the left kidney on the way, pushing almost all the way through, before the knife was pulled out again. The damage is extensive, the blood loss is severe and the fact that it took so long for the medics to arrive and help him, isn't doing Rafa any favors right now. They were reluctant to do the surgery right away because his overall condition was so bad when he arrived here, but they explained to us that they had to take the risk because waiting any longer just wasn't an option. They didn't make any promises to us... told us to be prepared for the worst... It's... bad.”

“That doesn't sound very reassuring... So they're not even sure he will pull through?”

Carlos only shook his head in response. Roger didn't need to know that Rafa's emergency room doctor had been a complete and utter ass and he didn't need to know any further details about how bad, how devastating this whole situation was. Actually Roger shouldn't even be here right now. This was a family matter and he wasn't family. But Carlos couldn't bring himself to send the other man away without answering his questions truthfully. After all Roger was the sole reason Rafa had made it this far and for that they owed him both thanks and gratitude.

“Look, I don't mean to be rude but you really shouldn't be here right now. This is a very difficult time for Rafa's family... Why don't I call you if there are any news? I guess after everything you did for him, you deserve to know. Though I need you to keep anything we tell you to yourself.”

“Yes, of course. I just need to know that he'll be okay. I won't tell anyone.”

“Good. Just leave a number for me and I'll call you back once the surgery is over. As I said, it might take a while. It'll probably take until late in the evening...”

“I'm so sorry...”

“You are the very last person who should be feeling sorry about anything. You saved him, gave him a fighting chance to make it this far... Now it's up to him...”

Roger had to smile at that. If it was up to Rafa's ability to fight through an adverse situation, he had little to no doubt that the younger man would be alright. If not both resilient and stubborn. This time they actually shook hands.

“Thank you for doing this, Carlos. If the right moment presents itself, please tell his family I'm sorry and tell them we're hoping and praying for Rafa. Tell them I can't wait to have him back on the tour happy and healthy.”

“I will.”

Roger left the hospital in a daze. This had not been what he had come here for, what he had hoped to accomplish but it wasn't an entirely wasted trip anyway. At least he knew now that Rafa had made it to the hospital alive, that they were doing everything they could to save him and that he would be fully informed once there were any actual, reliable news. Unfortunately he now also knew how devastatingly serious Rafa's condition was...

The cab and his wife were still in exactly the same spot as he had left them and it must have shown on his face or in the way he held himself that this had not been a pleasant experience. Mirka looked both worried and just a tiny bit fearful. He hadn't fully reached her yet, when she pressed him for an answer he couldn't give her yet. 

“So?”

“They don't know yet.”

“Oh... Do... do you want to go back to the hotel?”

“Yes. I want to see my girls. I want a chance to hold you. I want my family... And Carlos promised to give me a call once the surgery is through and they know anything for certain.”

#*#*#*#*#

Carlos had returned to the surgical ward's waiting room after his conversation with Roger and yet again he felt a little out of place. For the moment he was the only one around in this room, who was not directly related to Rafa. Neither one of them cared but still he couldn't help the feeling of not belonging, of invading... They had a lot to deal with right now, a lot to process and every member of Rafa's family present had found a slightly different way of coping with the excessive waiting they were condemned to endure.

Toni had been on the phone almost the entire time and he was very, very calm throughout every conversation he was having. He kept to the facts, kept every trace of emotion from his voice no matter if it was another family member he was talking to or a conversation of a somewhat more professional matter. He relied what little information they had at that point but neither gave assurances nor did he speak of his fears or worries. 

Maribel on the other hand was all about sharing emotion. She had settled down next to her mother at first, picking at the stark white bandage covering the cut on her arm, waiting for the other woman's reaction. She had sought contact and comfort, it had been easy to see, but with her mother unmoving, unable to comprehend what her daughter needed, Maribel had refrained from touching the older woman and had just sat there, warily until her mother had told her in a low, defeated tone of voice to stop undoing the doctors work and leave the bandage alone.

The young woman had retreated from her mother's side right there and then and had picked up her phone, calling her boyfriend. That had been 45 minutes ago. She was still on the phone with him now.

Rafa's father had been pacing the room – back and forth on the very same path the entire time like a caged tiger – ever since they had been shown here. By the time a doctor would come to tell them how the surgery had turned out, the poor man probably would have managed to wear down either his shoes or the linoleum floor... He hadn't said a single thing since they had come here and Carlos did not feel inclined to get him to open up.

Then there was Ana and her reaction worried him the most. She had settled down on one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs and was sitting perfectly still. One could have mistaken her for a statue hadn't there been the slight rising and falling of her chest as she breathed and an occasional blinking of the eyes. Other than that it looked like time had frozen around her. 

The one thing that struck him was that neither one of them had cried... The news had been devastating, the outlook grim but nobody had allowed even the tiniest sliver of despair to grab a hold and win the better of them. They were shocked, emotions working their way to try and consume them but they were all composed... Carlos himself had a hard time holding the remnants of his own composure together. He couldn't just stand here watching, analyzing. He needed to do something. Anything... and he decided to start with Ana, settling down next to her, looking at her only out of the corner of his eyes and keeping his voice low and soothing as he addressed her, not really expecting her to shake out of her trance. 

“How are you holding up?”

“My son is hurt...”

She did react though and after the initial surprise about that, Carlos was at a loss for what to say. It wasn't exactly an answer but Carlos could very well understand what Ana Maria was trying to tell him. He didn't understand it though. There had been nothing she could have done and so far he felt she had handled both herself and the situation admirably. He fully looked at her now, trying for a reassuring smile. 

“This isn't your fault...”

“Then why do I feel like I failed him? He's my son... Am I not supposed to protect him? Isn't that what a mother does?”

“He's not a child anymore, Ana. And you are not responsible for his health. Nobody could have known something like this was going to happen. It's awful and distressing but it isn't anyone's fault.”

“It's that bastard's fault who attacked Rafael!”

“Yes...”

It had been a thought that had been nagging at Carlos ever since they had settled in this room to wait here. Now – with the initial chaos and commotion over – he had finally found a quiet moment to contemplate and the one thought that always kept coming back to him was 'how'. He couldn't find an answer to it though. He had no idea how any of this could have happened, how it had been possible not only for someone to place an explosive device at the stadium but to actually get out on center court and close enough to Rafa to attack him in such an up, close and personal way. And what Carlos really couldn't fathom, was the fact that Rafa's attacker had somehow managed to slip away undetected... 

“Do you think he will be okay? You were there with him before... You saw... Will my son be okay?”

Ana Maria's wavering voice interrupted his thoughts and her questions caused a cold, hard knot to form in his stomach. He could understand her uncertainty and the wish for somebody to reassure her and tell her more about the details of what had happened inside the stadium. But Carlos couldn't bring himself to answer. He could not tell her about her son lying on the ground bleeding and in pain, slowly but gradually loosing the fight against unconsciousness and he certainly couldn't tell her about her son pale and unresponsive like a rag doll while the medics had worked on stabilizing his condition... He could not tell her about any of this. But he couldn't lie to her either.

“I really don't know, Ana. I wish I did...”

Hours passed and nothing happened. Ana was still sitting in silence, Sebastian was still pacing the length of the room, Maribel was still on the phone, talking to a friend on Mallorca right now, and Toni had finally ended his round of phone calls and had settled on a chair at the far end of the room, typing an occasional message on his phone and keeping to himself otherwise. Carlos had been reduced to a spectator after his conversation with Ana. He had gone for another cup of that awful coffee, had called his own family to tell them what had happened and that he was okay and was outside the room in the corridor on his way down to the lobby and the main entrance to catch a breath of fresh air when the automatic doors to the surgical ward opened and a doctor in green scrubs appeared. Carlos looked at his watch. 22:01. It had been five hours since they had arrived here... He hurried to step into the waiting room, preparing the family for the approaching physician.

“Guys, I think the surgeon is on his way...”

The reaction was instantaneous. Sebastian stopped his pacing, Ana Maria finally moved, Toni got up from his chair stepping closer to the rest of the family and Maribel pretty much ended the call with her friend without so much as a word of apology or goodbye. They were all anxiously waiting when the surgeon entered the room but if he was surprised or unsettled by the scrutiny of his patient's family staring at him in anticipation when he entered the room, he didn't let it show. He gave them a small smile and Carlos immediately liked this one better than the damn emergency room doctor.

“I'm Dr. Jabert, I performed the surgery on Rafael.”

“Will he be okay?!”

It was Maribel asking the questions before anyone else of them got a chance to do so. Of course they were all desperately waiting for an answer to that decisive question and unlike the other doctor down at the E.R., who had stalled and averted answering questions up to the point of being openly rude with them, Dr. Jabert didn't hesitate to fully explain and answer the question. His answer – though long and detailed – was not exactly promising.

“It really is too early to tell right now. As Dr. Allard already informed you, the damage done by the knife was very extensive. We repaired the damage to the artery, closed the intestinal tear and the damage done to the kidney and cleaned out the abdominal cavity to prevent infection from any excess waste leaking from the intestinal tear. And of course we closed the surface wound caused by the knife. He will be on an aggressive regimen of antibiotics to make sure the risk of infection is kept as low as possible but with an injury like this, the risks are always a little higher.

He received volume replacement by the emergency personnel and we continued that along with several transfusions to counteract the blood loss. There is a number of complications possible from that but I don't want to go into any detail about it right now. We will deal with it if it comes to that. It's nothing to worry about right now.

The severe blood loss though, I'm afraid to say, was an additional problem during surgery. We had a hard time keeping his pressure within acceptable levels while repairing the damage but we managed alright. There was one major cardiac incident during surgery but we were able to resolve it quickly and I don't expect there to be any lasting effects from it.

There is a lot of swelling right now both from the initial injury and from the surgery. As the wound is so close to the spine it puts a lot of pressure on it right at the moment, obstructing the nerves. It might result in temporary paralysis but I assure you it won't last and there won't be any adverse effects from it. As he is heavily sedated for the time being to give his body a chance to rest and support the healing process, there's no need to discuss this matter any further right now.

We intubated prior to the surgery as the anesthetics suppress the breathing reflex and we can easier control any respiratory problems arising this way. We will keep him under sedation for at least 2 to 3 more days and combined with the heavy duty painkillers, it is necessary to keep the tubing in place until he is well enough to be weaned off sedation. Until then he will stay on the ventilator to help his breathing.

For now we have to wait and see how well his body will be coping with the additional stress and trauma the surgery put him through. The next 36 to 48 hours will be critical. If he manages to hold his own through that period of time and no complications arise, I am cautiously optimistic for a favorable outcome for him. By then we will have a better understanding of the progression of his condition and his doctor in charge will be able to give you a more detailed prognosis on his chances for a full recovery. 

I know it doesn't feel that way but all in all he's a very lucky man to be alive at this point. Given the time passing between the initial attack and the surgery, we were lucky to get to him just in time. He's not out of danger yet and as I said, he won't be for at least another two days. But with the surgery being successful and him holding on through it, his chances have drastically improved. Do you have any more questions?“

“Can we see him?”

It was Maribel again asking the only question of any importance right now and adjusting to the monumental amount of hard to digest news first. Dr. Jabert gave her a small smile and let his eyes wander from one member of Rafa's family to the next before nodding his head yes. He went on to explain – as Carlos had expected – that seeing Rafa wasn't just as easy as his family might have liked it to be. And as hard as the doctors words and suggestions were, Carlos couldn't help but feel grateful. It was still a devastating and difficult situation for all of them, but for the first time today he actually felt hopeful and positive for the outcome of it all.

“It will be a little while longer. The nurses are getting him settled in ICU but once they are finished you can go see him. No more than two of you at a time and only for a couple of minutes though. He's been through a lot. He needs time to rest and recuperate; time to heal. You can come back tomorrow and stay with him a little longer. Visiting hours are over for today anyway.”

“You want us to leave him?”

“No. I want you to let us take care of him. That's what we're here for. He's in very good hands here, I assure you. There's nothing you can do for him right now anyway. It's up to expert medical care right now. That's what we'll provide. And if anything about his condition changes we will let you know. There's no need for you to stay here all night and exhaust yourselves. Take care of yourself instead. Rafael will need you strong and rested along his way to recovery, you should focus on that.”


	11. The big bang

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everybody.  
> We're back with Roger in this chapter and we're in for one of the biggest twists of the story today.  
> Which is only fitting because as of yesterday I can proudly announce that the story is completely finished and I'm done with the writing!
> 
> Enjoy and I hope you like the update :)
> 
> <>°O°<>

Roger had wholeheartedly tried to keep himself distracted, keep himself from either staring at his watch or his phone but he knew for a fact that if this kept going on for even 30 minutes longer, he was bound to lose the last remnants of patience he was still holding on to and would either yell at someone or throw something. He couldn't even imagine what all this useless waiting felt like for Rafa's family if it was already driving him this crazy. He felt for them and he could only hope they were better equipped to deal with this damn uncertainty than he was.

It had been a strange evening to say the least. The girls had been back from their trip into the city by the time they had returned from the hospital and they had been worried sick. Obviously someone at the reception desk has told them what had happened at the tournament side and had informed them both their parents had left to go to the hospital. 

It hadn't been an easy feat to calm down the two frightened teenagers. They had been worried and the only way to calm that worry down was full disclosure. Mirka had done most of the talking, telling the kids what had happened, assuring them both she and Roger were fine but also letting them know that the events at Roland Garros had not been without heartache and casualties. Mirka seemed to have decided not to reveal any details of the events on center court and Roger was grateful for that. Telling them would have meant that he would have to explain what had happened to Rafa and how he had so desperately tried to help. He couldn't do that. He couldn't relive that experience. Not yet and possibly not ever. 

The girls had been very clingy, seeking closeness and comfort after hearing about the horrible events of the early afternoon, and they had decided to watch a movie together, all of them snuggled up on the large bed in the master bedroom of the suite where a second TV was like they had done so many times when the girls still had been little. Nobody had paid much of any attention to the movie though. This had simply been about being together as a family.

They had ordered a light dinner through room service and the girls had dug in heartily but Roger found himself void of any appetite and actually feeling a little queasy at the sight of food. Maybe it was some sort of adverse reaction to the mental trauma and stress he had gone through today. Either way, he had opted out of eating anything and had watched his family instead.

It was now 21:30 and the sheer enormity of today threatened to catch up to him. He felt exhausted, yet completely unable to relax. The girls had the TV on, snuggled up on the couch in the main room, his wife was reading a book – which she frequently interrupted to throw him little looks of concern that of course didn't go unnoticed – and Roger had started a rigorous regimen of staring at his phone every two minutes. It had been more than four hours since he and Mirka had returned to the hotel and still there was no news from Carlos...

When he looked at his phone the next time, he was about ready to curse at it. There had to be some explanation for the silence from Rafa's coach and it drove him crazy. He stared at the little device with all the intensity he could muster, willing the damn thing to ring already. But instead of a phone call there was a knock at the door. Roger almost winced at the sound and shared a quick look with his wife. They didn't expect any visitors but maybe Rafa's family had returned from the hospital and this was Carlos coming to give him the news in person... He hurried to get up and answer the door but his hopes were disappointed. At the other side of the door, out in the corridor, he was greeted by the sight of his media manager and the man looked anything but happy to be here, even if he tried hard to hide it behind a mask of professionalism. 

“Good evening. I... I know it's probably a bad time but I really need to talk to you. Now.”

“Sure. Come in.”

Roger had debated sending the man away for just a brief second but found he had no energy for a possible argument ensuing from it. After all he had already send the man away and rescheduled this overdue meeting two days ago. He opened the door fully, allowing the other man in. The girls barely seemed to register the late evening visitor but Mirka had put her book down and was on her way over to greet the man and listen to what he had to tell them. Roger watched the exchange of a polite handshake between the two before he tried to quickly get this over with. Talking business was the last thing he wanted or needed right now.

“So?”

“I erm... This is sort of... precarious. I really don't think we should discuss this with...”

He gave a pointed look at the two teenage girls lounging on the couch in the main room and Mirka reacted before Roger had even fully comprehended what the media manager was trying to imply. Her tone of voice didn't leave much room for argument but given the fact that the two of them were teenagers, they were trying for defiance all the same. His wife however, wasn't having any of that.

“Girls, go to your room.”

“But...”

“Now.”

There was protest and exasperated mumbling but the two girls did as they were told. Closing the door to their bedroom with a little more force than necessary, the three grown ups were now alone in the main room. Mirka seemed anything but pleased with the development, being told how to handle her family in her own hotel room. It showed in her tone of voice as she addressed the media manager now.

“Now, what is it that is so delicate you couldn't discuss it in front of our daughters?”

Instead of an answer, he placed a sheet of paper on the table. It was encased in a sheet protector. There was a message typed on it, just a couple of lines in English, centered at the middle of the page. Roger reacted first, picked up the piece of paper and started to read. Next to him, Mirka did the same, reading along over his shoulder.

_I need you to be informed_  
_I need you to be prepared_  
_I need you to be out of harms way_  
_It's all up to you though_  
_If you win the final there is no need for any of this_  
_I'm just the contingency plan_  
_And I do it proudly and gladly._

_If you lose serve late in the second set_  
_there will be a set of explosions_  
_Don't worry about them_  
_They are minor and simply meant as a distraction_  
_Once people are starting to panic_  
_I will make my move_  
_I have a really nice sharp knife chosen for it_  
_It won't be quick_  
_It won't be pain free_  
_But I think that's only fair._  
_And you will never have to worry again_  
_Your accomplishments will be yours to keep_

_I know you will be thankful_  
_You don't have to be_  
_I'm proud to be of service_  
_You're welcome_

He had to read the message a second time before the sheer enormity of it finally sank in. It was like somebody had dropped a ton of bricks on top of him and had then proceeded to kick him – repeatedly and hard. He barely dared to look at his wife but he needed to see to know what she was thinking. Her face was pale, her expression stony and she was utterly silent. It was up to Roger to come up with some sort of verbal response to the barbarity he had just read. His voice was trembling.

“What is this?”

“It's what I wanted to show you on Saturday...”

“This... this is a detailed description of what happened at the final! A description of the attack! This is somebody claiming responsibility and... and warning me beforehand?! What the hell?! Why didn't you tell me this before?!”

The piece of paper sailed down onto the table as Roger let go of it, like he had been burned by it, his sole focus and anger on the media manager who had risen both hands in defense and whose voice was practically cracking as he tried to come up with something to say, some explanation, some excuse, something at all to say in his defense, that Roger truly wasn't interested in hearing. What he wanted was an explanation how something this enormous could have gone unnoticed and not have been dealt with, the minute it had found it's way to the manager.

“I tried! You rescheduled! And... and we never got a chance to speak again before the final...”

“And instead of talking to me you chose to simply ignore it and allowed things to play out, hoping for the best?!”

“I tried to tell you and make a decision from there. We didn't get to it. It's not like this is the first disturbing letter ever to find it's way to us. It's definitely not the first threat against another player on your behalf. But they're usually not this detailed, this collected and well constructed. It's usually mindless banter and rather revolting fantasies... It was a judgment call... and I was wrong...”

“Yes. You were. And Rafa is paying the price for it...”

The statement hung in the air like an executioner's ax waiting to fall. His media manager swallowed hard, trying to regain some semblance of composure and return to his former mask of professionalism. 

“Look, I'm sorry for what happened to him. But we need to think about YOU right now. We need to decide how to handle this.”

“Handle it? What's that supposed to mean?”

“Well there's two options here. We can either turn the letter over to the police as evidence... or we could make it disappear.”

The media manager had the decency not to look at him as he formulated the last part of his statement. The urge to laugh hysterically threatened to overtake Roger for a brief second. This whole situation was so damn surreal, he wasn't sure if maybe he had fallen asleep sitting at that table and was now having a nightmare. It would have been easier to bear if that was the case. A nightmare he could wake up from. But this was reality and it had to be dealt with, whether he wanted or not.

“Make it disappear?! Is that a joke? It's in very bad taste, I can tell you that.”

“There's nothing remotely funny about this, I assure you. But if we decide to make this letter public, which it will be once the police get their hands on it, there will be hell for you to pay. Neither one of us can even start to imagine the medial response it will generate and the consequences arising for you. If we decide not to share the letter with anyone though, I will make sure it will be destroyed and we will never ever speak of this again.”

“Never speak of it again... That is your solution? How am I supposed to do that? How am I supposed to live with myself. I could have prevented this! That alone is a devastating thought already... But keeping it a secret for the rest of my life... Looking Rafa in the eyes one day and lying him right in the face, telling him I have no idea how all this came to pass? I can't do this. I just can't...”

“So we give it to the police?”

Roger couldn't help it. He had to think about his answer for just a moment. Sharing a look with his wife, he could tell she was just as appalled about the letter... and as uncertain about how to handle the matter probably. The media manager had made one good point. He was not wrong about the medial response to this and he would have to answer a lot of very uncomfortable questions, would have to fend of a lot of accusations and would have to explain his role in this whole mess over and over again. In the end it wasn't a difficult decision to make. It wasn't actually a decision to make anyway. Because this wasn't his call.

“I don't think that's my decision to make. But I know exactly who I will ask.”

“You can't! You can't tell them, you can't show them... They'll...”

“What?! Hate me? Blame me? As they should! We could have stopped all of this from happening!”

It was his wife who realized first what he was planning to do and she protested vehemently. He knew she meant well. He knew she wanted to protect him. But it was the only right and moral thing to do. Whoever had written this letter had most definitely been the very same person that had attacked Rafa on center court and therefore it had to be up to Rafa – or his team and family as he couldn't do it himself right now – to decide how to best handle the matter. Before they could engage any further in their heated discussion the damn phone he had been waiting for to ring the whole evening, finally did just that. Roger picked it up, staring at the caller ID that stated an unknown number. He swallowed hard, trying to gulp down the panic that was threatening to overcome him. This was the very worst moment for the awaited call to come.

“Oh no... That's Carlos calling about Rafa. How can I... I can't talk to him. Not now!”

The phone was still ringing and Roger was still staring at it at a loss of what to do. His wife took initiative before he could make any decision about how to handle the situation, snatching away the phone that he still held in his hand loosely, looking at it in sudden horror and answered the call before Roger had a chance to protest or stop her.

“Hello?”

He was both surprised and amazed how calm and collected Mirka managed to sound. She had to be just as shocked about what they had just learned as he was but unlike him, she was able to suppress those emotions and not let them get the better of her. He could only listen in to her part of the conversation, trying to guess from her answers what it was Carlos was telling her but he couldn't discern anything about Rafa's condition from that. What he could tell without a doubt was that his wife was able to cover for him, lie for him, without even blinking an eye... 

“Yes, it's me. Roger went to lie down a little while ago and I really don't want to wake him.”

“Yes, he told me. I was there, outside the hospital waiting for him to come back...”

“Look, I understand if you want to keep the group of people knowing in depths about Rafa's condition as small as possible but I promise you, the only person I will tell is Roger.”

“Yes. Yes of course.”

“Okay.”

“That's... I don't know what to say... I'm so sorry... Please tell his family we're thinking of them and wish all the best for him.”

“Of course, I understand. Thank you for letting us know.”

Mirka ended the call and Roger was about ready to grab her and shake her if that meant she would tell him what the conversation with Carlos was about. Her expression was pretty much unreadable but he knew her long and intimately enough to know she was working through a whole bunch of emotions right there and then and note all of them had to do with that godawful letter. It couldn't be a good thing that the phone call had left her this emotionally invested... Finally he could no longer stand the long moments of silence, urging her to answer.

“What did he say?!”

“Rafa pulled through the surgery. But from what he told me it's still touch and go at the moment. It will take two more days before they can give a definitive answer. For now it's a waiting game.”

“One that I could have prevented.”


	12. Divergence from normality

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First and foremost thanks for all the reads and reviews.  
> I love you guys, you make my day!
> 
> Lot's more of the medical stuff in this chapter.  
> Once again I tried my best with research (and a retelling of my own unfortunate experiences) to make it realistic.
> 
> Also there's a bit of canon divergence in this one as I'm pretty sure Rafa's parents are still together.  
> For the purpose of this story, they are not.
> 
> Hope you like it.
> 
> <>°O°<>

Carlos had ended the phone call just as Dr. Jabert stepped out of the surgical ward's waiting room. He had talked with Rafa's family in private for a few more minutes and Carlos had excused himself to give the news to Roger as he had promised. He hadn't expected to talk to Roger's wife instead but he supposed he could trust her. It had been a little easier this way. He didn't know her much and simply relaying the basic facts with as little emotion had been easier with her.

When he stepped back into the waiting room, the family was having a discussion in hushed tones, obviously deciding what to do next. Carlos didn't want to intrude but of course he couldn't help the worry that was still very prominently there, dictating his actions. He took a step closer but didn't invade the personal space of any of them, asking what Dr. Javert had spoken to them about. 

“What did he say?”

“He explained to us how to get to ICU and he called ahead, letting one of the nurses know we are coming. We won't be allowed to stay for long, five minutes for each pair of us. Just long enough to see Rafael I suppose... He suggested to go back to the hotel again and... and as much as it pains me to leave him here with all these strangers, I think we should listen to the doctor. We're no use to Rafael if we run ourselves ragged with worry...”

“I won't go.”

Toni's statement surprised all of them and judging from the expressions on their faces it also angered and disappointed both Ana and Maribel. He was quick to explain himself and Carlos had to admit, it made sense. However he couldn't have done it. After everything they had been through today, all the fear and worries and uncertainty he simply needed to see that Rafa was alive and simply still there with his own two eyes. 

“I do not want to see him like this. I will be there for him all the way once he wakes up and is on his way to recovery.”

There was no further discussion about Toni's decision. What utterly surprised Carlos though was the fact that Ana Maria decided to go with her ex-husband while Carlos himself was supposed to accompany Maribel. He had half expected to be excluded from the group of visitors entirely as he was no family member and if at all had supposed that Ana would take her daughter with her and he would accompany Sebastian. He didn't question their reasoning though. This was their decision to make.

He, Maribel and Toni – who had accompanied the rest of the family to ICU none the less – were asked to wait outside, while Rafa's parents disappeared through the doors leading to ICU. It were only five minutes, but time seemed to slow down from the moment the two had left. Carlos caught himself looking at his watch for at least the fifteenth time since they had left and had to force himself not to do it again. 

When they returned, Sebastian had an arm placed around Ana, helping her take steady steps. She still hadn't allowed a single tear to fall but she was very pale and her eyes were very wide. Seeing them like this, this close and intimate and openly emotionally around one another was a strange thing to Carlos. It was like time had somehow reversed itself. But these were special circumstances and maybe that called for special coping mechanisms. He was glad Rafa's parents had it within themselves to overcome past pain and animosities for the sake of their injured son and simply be there for one another in this crucial moment. When Maribel took a step towards the ICU ward doors, clearly not wanting to wait any longer to go and see her brother, that carefully constructed composure Ana was still holding onto snapped. She freed herself from Sebastian's hold and stepped into her daughter's way, looking at the rest of the group for support.

“I don't want her to go in there.”

“Ana...”

“She can't! I don't want her to see her brother like this!”

“It's okay, Mama. I'll be fine. I can handle it.”

Maribel's tone of voice was calm and she sounded very sure of herself obviously taking Ana by surprise. She did the one thing she hadn't been able to so many hours ago and simply forced the physical contact on her mother this time, stepping closer to her, pulling her into her arms and squeezing tightly for a brief moment before letting go and smiling a soft sad smile at her. If there had been any resolve left in her mother to stop Maribel from visiting her brother, it had now melted away. She took a halting step to the side and stepped out of her daughters way reluctantly. 

Maribel had already rung the small bell that would cause a nurse to appear and gain them access to ICU when Carlos stepped up to her to accompany her. The same nurse that had opened the door to ICU on Ana and Sebastian greeted them in a friendly tone and gestured for them to follow her. They were taken to a small room right next to the entry where she asked them in a thick French accent to wash there hands and forearms before she gave them each a small bottle of antibacterial gel to use on top of washing up. 

It was a little anti-climatic in Carlos book. He had expected a more sophisticated set of precautions... But then again they were just supposed to take a look, maybe make a small amount of contact and their hands were now definitely clean... The nurse ushered them out of the small wash room and back out into the corridor, leading the way. She spoke to them in that same soft, but highly accentuated voice, explaining to them what to expect. 

“There are just a couple of things we want you to be prepared for. As the doctor told you already, there is a breathing tube in place and the way the machine works might look strange or even hurtful to you but I assure you it's doing exactly what it's supposed to.. There is a urinary catheter and a drain from the surgical incision in place, gathering excess fluid. I know it doesn't sound dignified but it's necessary right now and you shouldn't be bothered by it. There is also a lot of medical equipment to provide medication, proper care and to monitor his vital signs. I know that it is scary and painful to watch a loved one like this but everything you will see, everything we do here is to help him. None of the pieces of equipment are hurting him in any way. He's very heavily sedated. He doesn't feel a thing right now. So there is no need to worry. If you don't have any questions, you can go in now.”

Carlos had listened closely to the nurse and from the strained expression on her face, so had Maribel. He couldn't think of a single thing to ask and instead lead the way to the door, not wanting Maribel to be the one to enter first. She was right behind him though and as there was little to nothing he could do for her to ease the blow of seeing her brother like this, he simply pushed down the handle of the door. They entered the room, leaving the friendly ICU nurse behind and everything seemed to simply just... stop.

Carlos had been sure he would be able to handle this. After all he had been right there, out on center court with Roger and Rafa, seeing the blood, the way the injury had affected Rafa's ability to keep his strength, the losing battle against unconsciousness... He had also seen the younger man being treated by the emergency personnel, had witnessed him not even respond in the slightest to the ministrations of the medics as they poked and prodded and did what they had to do to stabilize Rafa's condition which surely had to have hurt. And they hadn't so much as elicited a moan or a wince from him. But this... this was different. It was worse. 

The breathing tube was the first, most prominent thing that drew their attention because it looked so seriously wrong and painful just as the nurse had told them. Her reassurance however did nothing to ease the blow. Carlos very first thought upon the sight, was to call for help, for somebody to remove the offending foreign object sticking out from Rafa's mouth. But it would have had devastating consequences doing so... and that in itself was a thought almost too much to bear. The damn thing helped Rafa breathe, keeping precious oxygen flowing through his blood, keeping him alive... 

Rafa wasn't exactly dressed, that was the second thing Carlos noticed. The gown the hospital had provided had been loosely placed, probably to allow for easier access to all of the equipment, the tubes and wires connecting to the different machines and of course the bandages covering the surgical wounds without having to deal with the piece of clothing every time somebody on the medical staff came to check on him. The actual site of the surgery was one thing they couldn't see though. The bandages were covered by a light, cream colored linen sheet, which was the only other thing covering Rafa's body. 

It had been pulled up to his chest right below the spot where the electrodes of the EKG monitoring equipment had been placed, it's wiring leading up to yet another machine. Below the thin blanket he could see two thick rubber tubes were snaking out, connecting to different plastic containers that were located at the side of the bed. He remembered the ICU nurse saying something about a urinary catheter and drainage for the surgical wound... Just as the nurse had told them - as undignified as it was to witness, it was simply necessary at the moment.

There was a blood pressure cuff placed on the right upper arm as well as a small clip on Rafa's index finger, a pulse oximeter measuring the oxygen level in his blood. Both of those devices connected to yet more wiring, leading up to another machine behind the bed, adding to the accumulation of soft beeping, confusing readouts and lines of vital signs. Carlos had no idea what they all meant and if any of those stats were either good or bad.

The central IV to the jugular vein that had already been placed by the emergency doctor was still there, connecting to a total of four different IV lines snaking up to a machine standing behind the bed, a confusing amount of readouts, buttons and regulators on it. Carlos had no idea what exactly that contraption was for but he assumed it was some sort of system to make sure that the various different medications Rafa was on to keep him both asleep and free of pain were both monitored and regulated through that machine. 

Two more IVs had been placed, one in the back of Rafa's left hand, the other in the crook of his arm which obviously wasn't a problem any more, now that blood flow had been restored to more normal levels. Those IV lines let up to an IV pole holding two different bags, one containing a clear the other one a golden brown liquids. The last one was a unit of blood and Carlos had to swallow hard at the sight. If there was one thing he was definitely sure of, it was that he had seen enough blood today to last for a lifetime. 

Staring back at the disturbing sight on the bed, Carlos simply couldn't shake the feeling that – no matter how many times the nurse had assured them it wasn't the case – all of those tubes and wires and needles had to hurt Rafa. The amount of equipment surrounding the bed, the sheer mass of all that life support stuffed in on place was frightening. Rafa looked so much smaller, so much younger and more vulnerable than Carlos could ever remember to have seen him before. He looked nothing like himself.

When he heard Rafa's sister draw in a shaky breath next to him, his focus finally shifted and his thoughts returned to the reality around him. His own inability to deal with the sight in front of them momentarily forgotten, he focused all his energy on making sure the young woman was alright. Just like him, she had stopped dead in her tracks at the sight of her brother and looking at her now, he realized her complexion had completely drained of any color.

“Mari? Are you okay?”

“I... I don't know. He's so... still and pale... He doesn't even look like my brother...”

“I know.”

He had half expected her to retreat. But she surprised him and took a halting step and then another until she reached the bed. Carlos followed, stepping up to the other side of the bed, giving her a little bit of space. The gaze she kept on her brother's face was intense, her movements slow and measured. Carlos watched her for any obvious sign of distress but so far she seemed to handle herself well.

She reached out but stopped herself mid-movement. For a moment she just stood there, her hands hovering in the air above her brother's prone form and Carlos assumed she was afraid to touch him. But it wasn't that. He could see it in the way her eyes kept wandering over him. She wasn't afraid, she was simply looking for a spot to touch that was not covered by a blanket, a bandage or a piece of medical equipment. She finally settled on putting both hands on his right forearm and immediately winced but didn't draw he hands back. She looked at Carlos standing on the other side of the hospital bed. Her voice was wavering.

“He feels cold...”

“He lost a lot of blood, Mari. I'm sure it's normal.”

The whooshing sound of the ventilator drew both of their attentions away from Rafa and towards the machine for just a moment. Carlos gaze followed the tubing that lead away from the machine and disappeared between Rafa's slightly parted lips, pushing air into his lungs. The movement the mechanical breathing caused to the rib cage looked completely unnatural, the hissing sound of the machine overly loud in the otherwise silent room. Maribel was first to find her voice again, though it sounded hoarse to Carlos.

“He looks so fragile...”

He didn't want to tell her that it was exactly what Rafa was right now. Fragile to the point of breaking. A drop in blood pressure, a complication from the surgery, an infection to the injury – internal or external – all of that could potentially send him into a downward spiral right now, one where there was no way back from... But he couldn't talk to her like that. Quite frankly he couldn't allow himself to even think like this. They had to stay positive – for Rafa's sake.

“He won't stay like this. He will get better. Healthy.”

“You promise?”

She sounded like the seven years old girl again, the one with pig tails and a front teeth missing when he had first met her all those years ago and Carlos couldn't help but smile. A pained, small, desperate smile. And he did something he shouldn't, something he quite literally couldn't because he really didn't know how things would play out. But it broke his heart to see her like this, see both siblings like this and he did it anyway to make her feel better, no matter the consequences. He made a vow.

“I promise.”


	13. Complicated

*A day and a half later*

The call had come at 5:30 am on the 32nd hour of Dr. Jabert's 48 hour window it should have taken for Rafa to finally be out of the woods and on the way to recovery and it had consisted of exactly four words. 'There is a complication'. It had been the most awful words Carlos had most definitely heard in his entire life and he had sprung into action after that.

He had hurried to get dressed and presentable and had met Rafa's family down in the lobby, accompanying them to the hospital where Dr. Mallarde - the ICU doctor who was now in charge of treating Rafa - was already waiting for them. Instead of taking them to ICU, he lead them all to a small office on the same floor as the ICU ward and offered them a seat before settling down behind his desk, opening a folder holding a wad of paper Carlos could only assume was Rafa's patient file.

Carlos hadn't exactly asked any questions on their way here, hadn't asked about any details. All he knew was that the hospital had called, had told Rafa's parents there was a change in his condition – a change for the worse at that – and had summoned them here. He had no idea why he hadn't thought of asking more detailed questions before. Maybe it had been due to the early hour of the morning... Either way it seemed neither one of the family members present here knew any more than he did. Dr. Mallarde was the one who would hopefully remedy that now.

“I don't want to waste any of your time, so I'll get right to the point. Rafael developed a fever over night. A very high fever, I'm afraid to say. We drew blood upon discovering the rise in body temperature and inspected the surgical incisions. The surgical wounds showed no signs of inflammation, which lead us to believe that the underlying cause is internal. The result of the blood test revealed elevated levels of white blood cells and lymphocytes further substantiating our initial assumption. An ultrasound performed after the blood results had been reviewed, confirmed it further. It's an internal infection, peritonitis to be exact. It's a very, very fast progression which is pretty unusual and quite a cause for concern. Normally infections like this develop within two to three days after the surgery. This one took less than a day and a half... 

We adjusted Rafael's treatment plan accordingly before you arrived, as this was a matter that had to be dealt with immediately. There's some paperwork I will need you to sign later on but we can deal with that at a later hour... Right now we're already trying a different, more potent combination of antibiotics to get this under control. For the moment there is nothing being done on our part to counteract the fever. It's the immune systems reaction to the infection, trying to burn the bacteria away by raising body temperature. As I said the fever is quite high but it's not acutely life threatening, which is why we simply monitor it for now and allow the body to handle this on it's own and let the fever run it's course for the moment. Should the fever get any worse, there is a couple of treatment options available that I will explain to you if and when it comes to that. We should see a change within the next 12 to 18 hours. Hopefully for the better...”

It was Toni who first came up with a question for the doctor and he had the utmost talent to come up with an inquiry nobody really wanted to hear the answer to but which was important to know and be prepared for none the less, no matter how hard it was for each and every one of them. 

“What if it gets worse? What can you do?”

“Nothing I'm afraid. If the infection doesn't stay localized and he turns septic there isn't anything else we can do. We could make him as comfortable as possible if it comes to that. But he wouldn't wake up again. The infection would spread through the blood, effect the lungs, effect the heart and given the amount of trauma he's been through already, they wouldn't be able to handle the additional strain. It would result in multi-organ failure eventually.”

“So basically you're telling us that if you can't get this infection back under control, he's going to die?”

“Yes.”

The doctor was being very blunt... and very honest with them and Carlos had to admit that he was grateful for the way the physician handled the situation. Sugarcoating how serious Rafa's condition was, would not help either one of them... He wasn't sure Rafa's family felt the same way about Dr. Mallarde but then again they had more pressing matters on their mind. Above all the attempt to get some sort of proper explanation for the deterioration in Rafa's condition. It was Ana Maria this time who asked the question.

“How could this happen?!”

“As Dr. Jabert explained to you yesterday with surgeries like this the risk for infection is always higher. Maybe the surgical team missed something during the lavage of the abdominal cavity during surgery. Maybe his immune system was somehow compromised before. Even a minor infection the immune system would otherwise fight off can cause serious problems if the body is compromised and forced through that much trauma... Or maybe the stage had been already set before we ever got a chance to treat him. Given the long time it took between the attack and the initial treatment, the lack of expert emergency care until almost an hour after he was attacked, the exposure of the wound to the elements... There really is no way to tell what caused this exactly.”

“Can we... Will you allow us to see him?”

“Yes, yes of course. We will take some extra precautions when it comes to hygiene due to the infection but you can see him. Yet again, no more than two of you at a time and only for the last five to ten minutes of every hour.”

Carlos had the chance to see Rafa twice for a couple of minutes before he had quite unceremoniously been thrown out of the hospital by Rafa's mother. It had been a little after noon, the group of them waiting for the time to pass before they were allowed back into ICU again and halfway through those fifty minutes of waiting, Carlos had fallen asleep on one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs in the waiting area. She had told him to go, had told him to rest and get some real sleep, call his family, eat something and not come back until the evening. He had not dared to argue with her. She had enough on her plate as it was.

He had barely slept the night before, tossing and turning while trying not to allow the sight of Rafa in that ICU hospital bed affect his composure and invade his every thought. He hadn't exactly managed and it had left him unable to fall asleep until way after three in the morning. He had finally fallen into a restless slumber only to be woken by that devastating phone call two and a half hours later. It was no surprise he fell asleep in the waiting room. 

He had returned to the hotel, had called his family on the way back there, assuring them that he was alright and only giving vague and evasive answers when the conversation turned to Rafa and how he was doing at the moment. As food was neither something he felt up to after everything that had happened today so far, he decided to get back to his room, go to bed, sleep a couple of hours and return to the hospital in the early evening hours. Reaching the floor his room was on however, he was surprised to find a visitor lurking in the corridor right next to the door to his room. He frowned, quickened his pace and actually managed to take the other man – who had turned his back on him at that moment – by surprise. 

“Roger? What are you doing here? This isn't your hotel. And you shouldn't be in Paris anymore anyway... Don't you have a tournament to play somewhere in Germany.”

“I know. I'm... I didn't mean to intrude... What's wrong? You look... devastated...”

“There was a set-back.”

Carlos response was short, his tone of voice strained. Roger watched him use the key card to open the door to his room and hesitated for just a moment, obviously deciding whether he wanted to let him in or would simply shut the door in his face. In the end Carlos decided on being polite and simply left the door open upon entering his room. Roger followed him inside, shutting the door behind them and watching the other man closely. He truly hoped for more information from Carlos but Roger didn't push. But he didn't have to. Carlos sighed turning back to face him. 

“Rafa has developed a fever over night and it has quickly risen to alarming levels in the early morning hours... They did a couple of tests and found an infection. He developed peritonitis.”

“It's my fault, isn't it...”

The words were out of his mouth before he even had a chance to think them through and Carlos gave him a questioning look. He hadn't expected this kind of reaction and quite frankly he had no idea how Roger had even come up with the idea. Apart from his – albeit gratefully appreciated – help almost two days ago, he had nothing to do with Rafa's condition or the fact that it had deteriorated this badly. 

“Why would you say that?”

“I used the first thing I could get my hands on to stop the bleeding. I never even wasted a second thought on it... That towel was used for the duration of the match... That's what caused this, isn't it?”

“They can't say for sure what caused it. It could be because of what you did but it might just as well be a mistake during surgery or a number of other things. It doesn't matter anyhow. Hadn't it been for your quick reaction, Rafa never even would have made it this far...”

Carlos was still praising him, still showing gratitude – despite the fact that Rafa's condition had worsened – and Roger couldn't help but give a sarcastic little laugh. Hadn't it been for him, Rafa wouldn't even be in this situation right now. He would be happy and healthy and probably would have won the tournament and his 20th Grand Slam title, reaching a draw with Roger... But none of that had happened and he could have prevented it all from happening. He needed to tell them... And if he had needed any more incentive, Carlos being friendly and patient with him despite his obvious tiredness and the devastating news he had been forced to deal with today was the last push Roger needed.

“There's something I need to show you.”

Roger pulled a folded piece of paper from the pocket of his jacket, unfolded it and handed it to Carlos. It was a copy. He hadn't dared carrying the original of that disgusting letter with him around the streets of Paris. He couldn't help his reaction as he watched Carlos starting to read, his face creasing in a frown. Roger took a small step back and crossed his arms in front of his chest. 

He could tell exactly when Carlos reached the passage about the knife attack. A whole set of emotion played out on his face. First there was confusion, then disbelief, then anger and finally downright, hot raging fury. When Carlos let the piece of paper sink down, the hand holding it was trembling. His tone of voice was as cold as ice and as sharp as the edge of broken glass... or a knife. Roger tried his hardest to give a calm, collected response in return. 

“What is this?!”

“It's a fan letter... It came with a bunch of mail two days prior to the final. I tried to come and see you about it yesterday already but you were all at the hospital I guess... I...”

“You knew... You knew this was going to happen!”

“I didn't. But I could have... One of the members on my PR team tried to talk to me about it, told me there was something rather alarming among those letters, but I brushed him off. I didn't think anything of it at the time. Strange and even somewhat disturbing letters happen from time to time... I... I should have listened. I'm so, so sorry...”

Roger didn't get a chance to get out any more of his explanation and apology. As carefully as he had thought about what to say beforehand and had tried to chose his words, it was the wrong thing to say. Carlos practically exploded into his face, taking a step closer to him, less than two feet away from him now and yelling at him in anger and something that could only be described as anguish. 

“You're sorry?! Sorry?! That's it?! Rafael could die! You could have prevented this and you are sorry?!”

“Carlos...”

“Get out!”

Carlos hand shot up suddenly, pointing to the door. Of all the things Roger had imagined before coming here, all those worst case scenarios, he had not expected to be thrown out. He had known Rafa's trainer would be angry. He had expected to be yelled at, insulted even. He had expected to be blamed. But he had not expected this and he reacted to it without any grace or eloquence, simply staring at the older Spaniard.

“What?”

“Get out. Get away from me and leave this room before I lose the last remnants of self restraint I still have left. Leave or I swear to god you will regret it!”

Carlos took a tiny step closer, the expression on his face all rage and righteous anger. This time Roger retreated. Carlos had quite clearly threatened him and as much as he blamed himself for everything that had happened, he certainly wouldn't allow the other man to lay a hand on him. He couldn't help the anger bubbling up inside of him. He had come here out of respect, had come here to apologize for the horrors somebody else had inflicted and here he was being treated like a common criminal and a villain. He reacted out of emotion and that emotion told him to fight back and lash out.

“Two days ago you thanked me! You told me you were grateful! You told me I saved his life!”

Carlos stepped up to him so quickly and had an iron hard grip on his upper arm, that Roger had no chance to retreat further away from the other man this time. Carlos was so close, he could feel the warmth of the other man's breath on his face, could see the small capillaries in his eyes, red and bloodshot. Carlos tone of voice was low now, barely more than a whisper but there was a faint tremble in it betraying just how much restraint it took him not to yell or physically attack Roger in that moment.

“Was that the plan all along? Play the savior? See if you could benefit from this whole mess somehow? You know what will happen, you let it play out, you see if you can help Rafa and afterwards you claim ignorance and portray yourself as the hero of the day? Was that the plan?”

“It was nothing like this... I didn't know. Not until after. You have to believe me...”

Carlos let go of him, took a step back and looked at him in a way that showed utter disgust. The Spaniard shook his head slowly and his expression changed. Anger was returning quickly but this time Carlos managed to keep his voice level. Roger on the other hand – having being yelled at, accused of being nothing short of a co-conspirator and physically mistreated on top of all that, didn't manage as much. He simply couldn't. His emotions were all over the place. 

“No. I don't care if you knew before or not. I don't care! You could have saved him from all this pain but instead you allowed this to happen. You could have just as well been the one to hold the knife! You had his blood on your hands and no matter how much you try to wash it away, it will stay there. This is your fault.”

“I saved him, damn it!”

“You also endangered him. I guess that makes you even. We owe you nothing. Rafa owes you nothing. Get out.”


	14. The waiting game

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everybody.  
> Here's another update for you and it will be a while before you get the next one.  
> I'll be on hiatus until the first week of August.
> 
> Hope you like the update and I'll be back with more in a little while.  
> Enjoy!
> 
> <>°O°<>

*4 days later*

Switzerland

Roger had left. Not only Carlos hotel room though. He had left the hotel, the city of Paris and had taken his family back home on that very same day, not wasting any time. The girls had been disappointed, his wife had been suspicious and he had been utterly defeated. And to add insult to injury he still didn't know how to handle the letter... He still had Carlos number in his contacts and he could have called him again but he didn't dare to confront the other man again. Not after what had happened, not about this letter.

He had decided to push the decision back until there would be definitive news about Rafa. The last four days only silence had come from Rafa's team and family. There had been no new press release, no articles on either sports or tabloid sites and not even so much as a rumor had found it's way to the general public. Roger found that fact deeply unnerving. The last thing Carlos had told him about Rafa was that he was worse and that there was an infection to be dealt with. Given the fact that Rafa's family was too preoccupied to talk to anyone, that probably meant treatment wasn't going well...

He had tried to tell himself not to dwell on the matter, not to let it affect his every day life and simply focus on being home with his family. But it was a lot harder to achieve than he had ever expected... He was often unconcentrated, lost in thought and inattentive of the needs of his family. He knew it was wrong, he knew it was a bad way to deal but he couldn't help it. He still felt responsible and a tiny part of him felt utterly guilty and those were feelings he couldn't simply push out of the way and bury somewhere.

The first night back at home was also when the nightmares had started. While still in Paris he had suffered from insomnia, sleeping only hours at a time throughout the night and spending the rest of it either lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, contemplating or up and about around the hotel suite, trying to find something to distract himself with. His wife hadn't said anything about it then but she had given him concerned looks throughout the day every now and again. He assumed she wanted to give him the time and space he needed to work through all this. Just that it didn't happen. Instead it got worse.

The first nightmare had occurred on his first night back home, the very first night after Carlos had blamed him so viciously for what had happened to Rafa. He had woken in a cold sweat that first night at home, had panted to the point where his lungs burned with the exertion of it and had woken Mirka in the process. That night he had been able to assure her he was fine and had told her to go back to sleep. He himself hadn't been able to. He had left for the patio, had sat there and had waited for daybreak. 

The next night, it happened again and this time Mirka wasn't as easily persuaded to simply ignore his suffering and go back to bed. She had urged him to tell her what was wrong with him, had asked him to be open and honest and tell her what he had been dreaming about. He had deflected, had told her he didn't remember – which was actually true – and had repeated the routine of the day before. Get up, go outside, wait for day.

By the fourth night Mirka had threatened to switch bedrooms if he wouldn't talk to her and he had let her. She had been cold and distant with him ever since then, especially because he had done something else, something important and enormous without considering her advice. He had pulled out of the tournaments leading up to Wimbledon. He wasn't even sure he wanted to go to London at this point in time, not yet. Not after how things had gone over with Carlos, not with the decision of what to do with that damn letter still hanging over him. Not given the fact that Rafa was still in the ICU in the Parisian hospital, fighting for his life while the infection he had picked up simply refused to retreat.

Of course Mirka had been furious with him. Not because of his decision but because of his blatant ignorance towards his family. She had spent the day away with the kids and hadn't returned until late that night, bringing back four completely exhausted but happy kids and a whole bunch of shopping bags. It was her way of telling him that he decided not to consider his family and their feelings, she could play the same game just as well. 

Things had returned to a fragile balance after that but they were still anything but comfortable and trusting around one another at the moment. It had been four days since their hasty departure from Paris and they were sitting at the kitchen table, having breakfast. Roger had pushed his food around on his plate and of course Mirka had noticed but hadn't commented on it. She was on her laptop right now and he had assumed whatever she was doing had something to do with their private life but as it turned out she was actually doing something work related, which was checking emails from business partners and tournament officials. When she looked over to him, there was something in her eyes that caught his attention and made him put down the cup of coffee he had been about to drink from. What she had to tell him took his breath away... and not in a good way.

“I have a message here from the tournament officials at Roland Garros. They want to hold a belated trophy ceremony...”

“That's ridiculous. We never finished the match.”

“Well...”

“What?!”

“Technically speaking Nadal retired due to... injury. That is what the official Roland Garros press release says...”

“Come again?”

“They want to give the trophy, and the title of course, to you.”

“I don't want the damn thing! Not like this! You can tell them that. The winner of this year's French Open is yet to be determined and once Rafa is better, I'll gladly compete against him to find out who of us will get that trophy. That's my answer to this ridiculous plot they are planning!”

No longer able to contain his anger, Roger had abruptly gotten up from the kitchen chair and was pacing up and down the length of the kitchen table while making his anger known to his wife in a raised voice. He couldn't believe these people! There hadn't been a finished match, there had been a full competition, there had been a major attack on the tennis center with people injured and all that was on the officials mind was shoving that trophy in his arms... Mirka had been watching his nervous walk and looked at him with that damn unreadable expression again. Her tone of voice was foreign to him. It was one she usually used when dealing with a business partner she had to accommodate but felt no sympathy for.

“Roger, please don't yell at me. This is not my doing. I'm just relaying information.”

“I'm sorry... I simply can't do this right now, okay. There will come a time for a rematch, I'm sure of that. Once Rafa gets better...”

“If he gets better...”

She said it in a whisper but he had heard her reply all too clearly. A cold shiver ran down his spine. He had never told her about what little information Carlos had relayed to him about Rafa prior to their ugly fight but it seemed Mirka had informed herself through other sources and – even though she didn't know it – shared his concerns about the Spaniards condition... He looked at her sharply his tone of voice a warning to her to think about how to respond very carefully. She did and she retreated instead of engaging in the fight that had threatened to occur between them.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.”

#*#*#*#*#

Paris

In ICU things seemed to stay pretty much the same. Antipyretics had been added to the drug regimen, the saline solution was chilled down before it was attached to the IV, the linen sheet had been replaced by a cooling blanket and Rafa was sweaty and even more pale than before, but that was the extent of the visible changes the infection had caused. The medical consequences however were a whole different problem. According to Rafa's ICU doctor his vital signs were deteriorating. Blood pressure and pulse were on a constant high, his blood work showed levels of toxicity and harmful agents accumulating in the blood stream and the amount of drugs it took to keep him comfortable and unable to feel the pain despite the medically induced unconsciousness had drastically increased.

It had been very, very trying days for the family and Carlos had not found it within himself to tell them about his encounter with Roger, the ugly fight that had ensued and the copy of that godawful letter that he still had locked away in the safe of his hotel room ever since that day. It simply wasn't the right time to tell them. Their sole focus needed to be on Rafa right now and he didn't want to add any additional pain on the one each and everyone had to feel already at the knowledge how close they actually were to losing him.

What Carlos dreaded the most right now were the nights. He had barely slept these past four days and that was mainly due to the fact that he couldn't shake the dreadful expectation of a nightly phone call, telling him that Rafa had lost the fight against the infection raging inside his body and wasn't with them anymore. Seeing the younger man during the day – even if it was just for a couple of minutes – assured Carlos temporarily. 

Today had been no different to the three days before. Rafa's condition hadn't changed and the staff in ICU was still desperately trying to find a way to help him get better. Right now he and Ana were in conversation with Dr. Mallarde yet again and one could easily tell that Ana was slowly but gradually reaching her breaking point. Carlos couldn't blame her. 

“It's been four days... Isn't there anything you can tell us for sure? Anything at all?”

“Well the fever is still very high and the antibiotics are not yet helping and that is bad. But Rafael's condition hasn't deteriorated any further. His vital signs are anything but satisfactory but they are holding steady and that is a good sign. He surprised all of us here. He's fighting this very very hard but he can't do it on his own. We just need to find the right combination of antibiotics to finally get this infection under control.”

“You'll try yet another combination? Again?”

“We have to. The only other reliable option would be exploratory surgery to find the source of the infection, remove it and flush the abdominal cavity again.”

Carlos looked at the doctor in surprise at that statement and Ana mirrored his reaction. Nobody – none of the nurse, not the doctor not anyone on staff – had told them there was another option they could explore. A flicker of hope blossomed in him and judging from the excited quality to her tone of voice Ana felt exactly the same way. The doctor's answer however was crushing. 

“Why not do that then?”

“We can't. He's too weak for that. He wouldn't survive the surgery.”

What Dr. Mallarde did not tell them was the simple fact that after everything Rafa had been through, after the initial injury, the blood loss, the surgery and the continued exposure to the infection and the high fever, he was simply to weak to survive much of anything for much of any longer. It was a losing battle, they all knew that and every day that passed by like this brought them closer to defeat. Next to him Ana sighed, sounding utterly exhausted. 

“So you reevaluate which medication to use and we wait?”

“Yes. We wait.”


	15. The wrong direction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everybody!   
> In celebration of the fact that I just reached page 100 on the new fic I started writing,  
> I thought I'd give you a treat in form of an early update. :D  
> Next one not before August 4th but back to three times a week after that. 
> 
> Once again lots of medical stuff in this chapter.   
> I researched and I hope it all makes sense. 
> 
> Also no Roger in this chapter but he will be in the next one, I promise.
> 
> Hope you like it.
> 
> <>°O°<>

*The morning of the next day*

Carlos groaned at the sound of his phone giving an alarm that told him it was time to get up.   
He had a nightmare or maybe it was actually a dream... Either way it had been disturbing. He had dreamed of his conversation with Roger four days ago but in his dream he had not been able to reign in his anger and he had actually attacked the Swiss... He had felt deliverance at the action in his dream but being awake now he felt bad about it. Violence was no solution, not to anything and it certainly wouldn't change any facts... and still in his dreams it had felt good...

Carlos pushed the thought aside. He had more pressing matters to attend to. He had let the alarm go to sleep mode three times before finally reacting to it and that meant he had only 15 minutes to get dressed and ready before he and Rafa's family would go back to the hospital for yet another day of grueling waiting and uncertainty until the doctors determined if this time – finally – the antibiotics were doing their damn job and kicking that damned infection out.

Carlos hurried through his morning routine and was only two minutes late by the time he left his hotel room. He decided to take the stairs instead of the elevator and arrived downstairs in the lobby less than two minutes later. Looking around he was surprised not to find the little group already standing by the exit, waiting. As he looked across the wide room he detected Rafa's uncle near the reception desk. But it was only Toni down in the lobby, the rest of Rafa's family nowhere in sight. 

At first Carlos believed that he was late and that Toni had been nice and patient enough to wait for him and take a different cab with him so he didn't have to go all by himself. But a look at his watch told him that he was only five minutes late. The only other explanation there was, was too horrifying to even consider but then again he could think of no other reason why Rafa's parents and sister would not go to the hospital. The only reasoning he came up with was that there was no more need for them to go... He quickened his pace, broke into a jog and reached Toni, breathless and feeling both sick and dizzy. The words were out of his mouth before his mind got another chance to come up with any more ideas for this strange occurrence.

“He died...”

“What?! No! The fever broke! The infection is finally receding. Dr. Mallarde wants to wait another day or so for the fever to go down a little more but then he wants to try and take Rafa off the sedation. He's finally getting better! Which also means we're back to normal visiting hours. I just wanted to tell you and not leave you standing here, waiting for us to come. Maribel took her parents out into the city for brunch. They are... celebrating.”

“That... that's amazing news!”

Carlos still stared at Toni, trying to make sense of the words. Rafa was better... Even the thought of it had become such a foreign concept over the course of the last week that Carlos had a hard time wrapping his head around it. But this was great. It meant Rafa would be okay. He would wake up, recover and be healthy. And – as much as he felt guilty thinking about it so soon after receiving this splendid piece of news – it meant Carlos himself could go home to his family, kiss his wife, hug his children and feel happy and content to have them in his life. If this experience had taught him one thing for sure it was that nothing in life could be taken for granted... 

“When will you go to the hospital?”

“In the afternoon. Dr. Mallarde asked us to give him a chance to run a couple more tests, simply to make sure everything is really okay about the infection and the fever. It's supposed to take most of the morning and the early afternoon. We can visit Rafa afterwards.”

“That's I... I don't even know what to do with myself. All any of us have been doing this past week solely revolved around Rafa and his condition. What...”

“I'm sure you will think of something, Carlos. How about you book a flight home? Your family must miss you.”

“And I miss them. But I won't go home just yet. I will see this through. After everything we have all been through I need a chance to talk to that amazing, admirable, stubborn kid... and tell him to never ever scare me like this again.”

“I'm sure he will gladly oblige. See you in the afternoon, Carlos.”

For the first time since Rafa had been admitted to Georges Pompidou the trip to the hospital was accompanied by happy banter, laughter and a generally relaxed atmosphere among the members of Rafa's family. They were all elated and optimistic now that there had finally been some progress into the right direction and they no longer had to fear for Rafa's very life with every minute that passed by. After all these long days of hoping and despairing, of praying and waiting, of wishing and unraveling, Carlos simply didn't trust in the sudden carefreeness.

He did turn out to be right with his apprehension. Dr. Mallarde was waiting for them at ICU when they came to see Rafa and did not let them enter. Instead he ushered them back into his office yet again and yet again he was wearing that serious expression on his face Carlos had learned to dread over the course of the last week. He couldn't help a mumbled reaction that was half a curse half irritation. Dr. Mallarde however chose to ignore him and focused on Rafa's parents instead.

“What now...”

“I’m so sorry but I fear I have bad news for you yet again.”

“What happened?! You said the antibiotics worked and the fever broke! You said he was better... Is he not? Is it worse?!”

Ana's voice was breaking from anxiety and Carlos hated it wholeheartedly to have to hear that tone in her voice again so soon. He wished for nothing more but for Rafa's family to be rewarded with good news for once and for Rafa to finally be better and on his way to recovery. Dr. Mallarde however was crushing these hopes and wishes right there and then and even if it wasn't his fault and he didn't do it on purpose Carlos couldn't help but despise him in that moment.

“Not exactly, no. Not yet anyway. But I had a look at the results of the blood tests we did after the antibiotics finally did their job and Rafael was improving. They did show the awaited normalization within the white blood count and the lymphocytes but there are also some results that cannot be explained by the infection. I don’t like what they are showing us. We caught it early and that’s good but from the preliminary results everything points to renal failure.”

“That is the kidney, right?”

“Yes.”

“But you said compared to the rest of the damage the kidney problem was minor…”

Dr. Mallarde sighed softly. He had used those words somewhere along the way and as it turned out now had decided on a poor choice of words. A tear in an organ was never a small problem. But compared to everything else his patient had to deal with and the severe complications he was suffering from, the kidney had seemed like the lesser problem at that time. It was ironic that his imprudent words came back to haunt him now.

“I know. But the rest of the damage is pretty extensive in comparison… I ordered additional testing and we did get some imaging later on this morning to have a better understanding of what is happening. Unfortunately it didn't tell us much. There is no enlargement which means the organ isn't infected and there are no signs that point to an additional bleeding problem. In other words we don't know what causes the kidney to fail and as I already explained to you, exploratory surgery is off the table given how weak Rafael still is.”

“What does this mean then? What will you do?”

“For now all we can do is treat the symptoms. Counteract the levels of toxicity building up in the blood with medication, keep a close eye on the levels of hydration… But it all comes down to the fact that the kidney seems to be shutting down either due to the injury or due to the abdominal infection wreaking havoc for so long. If the tests validate that assumption and once he is actually well enough to tolerate it I would highly recommend surgery.”

Of course the suggestion of yet another surgery, after the last one had turned up such devastating consequences in it's aftermath, didn't go over well with the family. Dr. Mallarde had expected nothing else. He wasn't too happy about this development either but it was his job to offer the best course of treatment and he strongly believed that this was exactly what he was offering.

“Again?”

“I believe it would be the safest course of action. Any additional stress on his already weakened system should be avoided.”

“You make that sound like surgery wouldn’t be additional stress for him!”

“That’s not what I’m trying to say. But compared to simply treating the symptoms of an underlying cause we have to address sooner or later anyway, trying to stem the flow of toxins into the bloodstream as the damaged kidney can’t do it’s filtering job properly and risking all kinds of further complications, surgery is the safer option.”

“But it’s still a risk, is it not? And you won’t even tell us what exactly it is you plan to do? What would the surgery be for?”

“To remove the kidney.”

“No.”

The reaction was a unified one and the French doctor honestly hadn't expected anything else. Telling family members that a surgery was necessary was hard enough already. Telling them that the removal of an organ was the best course of action however was something so drastic and serious that protest and adversity was to be expected. He looked from one of them to the next, trying his hardest to make the benefits of this treatment plan known and letting them know at the same time that it was the long term they were talking about right now.

“Look, I’m not suggesting that it’s our only option. And as I very clearly stated it is an option for a later time as Rafael couldn't handle the surgery in his current condition anyway. So actually it’s the very last option to consider. And right now it’s all about informing you about the choices there are. We have to wait how this progresses and keep on doing the tests before we make any decisions anyway. It’s a small margin of error we are talking about here but there might be another explanation entirely. I just want you to be prepared.”

“What does this mean in the short term? You said you would wake him up...”

Dr. Mallarde nodded at that. He still felt stopping the sedation and giving his patient a chance to wake up and tell them how this new development in his health was affecting him, was the best way to go. He had been unconscious for way too long in the doctor's book already and he knew he wasn't the only one feeling that way. Yet again however he spoke on the side of caution, urging the family members not to expect too much from him and his decision.

“I still would like to try, if only to give us a better understanding of how this new development is affecting him, which is difficult to do with an unconscious patient. I can't guarantee he will be very much aware of anything... or not in pain for that matter. But deciding how to proceed from here is a lot easier if he can tell us himself how he feels.”

“What will happen now?”

“We'll wean him off sedation and adjust the amount of painkillers he's receiving accordingly. It will be a slow process though. It might take two to three days. We'll do it in stages and once he's a little closer to waking up, we will take him off the ventilator. I don't want to risk him waking up with the tube still down his throat. It's quite a frightening experience and most patients tend to fight the tube once they realize it is there. I don't want that to happen. He could hurt himself that way and the last thing he needs is any additional stress on his body. Once the sedation wears off, he will hopefully be alert enough to tell us how he is feeling. We will decide how to proceed from there on out. Until then we treat the symptoms as they occur and keep a very close eye on him.”


	16. Incomprehensible

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more early update just because I can. :D  
> This one has a split POV.  
> Some more medical stuff on Rafa's POV.
> 
> Hope you like it!
> 
> <>°O°<>

*Two and a half days later – early afternoon*

 

Switzerland

It was the first night within days Roger had actually slept through but he still felt anything but rested or relaxed when he woke up in the morning. He and Mirka still slept in separate bedrooms even after they had resolved the worst of their disagreement and that was probably the reason why Roger hadn't woken up. There had been nobody there to shake him awake. Because even though he had slept, he had still been stuck in yet another awful dream.

In his dream he had been back on center court at the French Open again. Everything was exactly the same as it had been that day and it all happened exactly as he remembered it. There was the explosion and then there was Rafa on his knees, his hand coming away bloody from the stab wound on his back, falling to his side unable to brace the fall. And he had been there to help, had grabbed for the towel he had used to stop the bleeding. Only that it hadn't been there.

In his dream there had been no towel to use to stem the flow of blood from Rafa's back and that was the moment the memory had turned into a nightmare. His dream self had been unable to comprehend the absence of the piece of fabric and instead of reacting and adjusting, doing anything else, finding anything else to use to help, he had just sat there. He had sat there on the ground and had watched as Rafa bled and bled and bled... 

When he had woken up he had felt sick to his stomach and for the first few minutes he had been sure he would throw up. But slowly, oh so slowly, his stomach had calmed down and his troubled mind had followed. Still he had needed almost twenty minutes before he trusted both his body and his mind enough to actually get out of bed and start the day. 

The vivid memory of that dream had not left him the entire day though. He had been preoccupied with it during breakfast. Had barely talked to his family because of it and had retreated to the relative safety of his office. Of course he knew that he couldn't hide himself away in there forever. And he should have known better than to expect his wife to just let him run away and try to avoid her. It wasn't even an hour after he had retreated from the breakfast table that she came to seek him out and she left no room for any doubt that she would not let him get away with evasive answers and half truths this time. 

“What is wrong with you? What is happening? You're not sleeping, you're not talking to me, you don't spend time with the kids, you barely ever have so much as a smile for us. What is it? I know you don't want to, but you really need to talk to me. Please!”

It was her plea that did the trick because that was the one thing he had not expected her to say. Everything else that had come from her mouth had been a demand, an order. But the way she pleaded with him, the desperation in her voice as she did, made it impossible to simply brush her off and keep all of this to himself. And once he started talking about it, it seemed like a dam had broken and the words were simply flowing out of him.

“I don't know. I really don't know. I just know that I feel... not like myself. I can't sleep, I can't enjoy anything I do and my thoughts keep coming back to what happened in Paris. I just can't shake it off. I can't shake off the memory of Rafa bleeding on the ground and I cannot, for the life of me, stop blaming myself for it. I keep thinking about different outcomes... If only I had known about the letter before the final. If only the media manager had decided to tell someone without waiting for a chance to talk to me first. If only Rafa had played a bad match that day... I hate the fact that I can't stop feeling like all of this could have been avoided. I can't help but feel like it's all my fault and that I caused another human being pain... And I hate the fact that I don't know how the hell he is doing. There's been no news whatsoever... It's driving me crazy, all of this. I don't know what to do about it. It's just always there...”

“I know you don't want to hear this and you won't believe me anyway but I strongly believe that there is nothing you have to blame yourself for. Yes, it would have been better if this letter would have been dealt with promptly and maybe – just maybe – that catastrophe during the final could have been avoided. But we don't know that. Neither one of us knows how we would have reacted to that letter BEFORE anything happened and we never will know. You cannot blame yourself for that. All you can do is work through this, give it time, cut yourself just a tiny bit of slack and for heaven's sake just talk to me... Okay?”

“Okay.”

There was both truth and sense to what she had told him and he knew he could trust her in her assessment, could trust her to be his confidant and his shoulder to cry on if need be. This wasn't about trust though and it wasn't about love either. This was about the simple fact that no matter what she told him and how right she was with what she said, she could not understand what he was going through. She hadn't been there, hadn't literally had that blood on her hands. She couldn't know and he wouldn't tell her. Not in detail. Not ever. He would never burden her with something like this. But he could tell her about the little things, the ones that were not too awful to talk about... And he could try to be better – for her sake and for the kids... Her next question caught him off guard.

“Do you want to go back to Paris?”

“What? No! God no... I can't do that. I have no right to.”

“You saved Rafa's life.”

_And you also endangered it._ Carlos words repeated themselves in Roger's head and he tried to shake off the memory. He couldn't tell Mirka about that either. It wasn't like she was oblivious. After all she knew that he had gone to speak with Carlos and she had also been there to see his devastated expression and his decision to pretty much run away from Paris upon his return to their hotel suite that day... But she hadn't pushed him to confide in her then and he couldn't bring himself to tell her the complete, horrible truth of what Carlos had said and how he had been an inch away from being attacked by the Spaniard now... The one thing he really couldn't deal with right now was having parts of that awful conversation with Carlos repeated back to him in his wife's voice. He shook his head vehemently at her statement.

“The doctors saved Rafa's life. And we don't even know that for sure. We know nothing about how he's doing at the moment.”

“Actually that's not true.”

Before he could ask her what she was talking about, the folded page of a newspaper landed in his lap. It was a French paper and it dated from this morning. Half the page was some article about some French actress that had married some rich bank manager at the Cote d'Azure. But below that was little article that had been the sole reason Mirka had brought the excerpt of the paper to him. 

It was an official press release from the hospital in Paris and though it was short and not including any detailed information, it was still full of excellent news to Roger. There was the usual disclaimer and the unfortunately necessary appeal to the press to please respect both the patient's and the family's privacy and leave them be in this trying time. The actual information within the press release boiled down to four little sentences and every last one of them put a content smile on Roger's face. Finally – it seemed – things were looking up for Rafa.

_The antibiotic treatment for the post surgical infection has been successful_  
The fever has gone down to acceptable levels and the infection is receding  
His condition is no longer critical and all vital parameters are within satisfactory range  
He will remain in intensive care for the time being 

“Thank god...”

“Do you feel a little better now?”

For the first time in more than a week he actually, genuinely smiled at the cheeky tone of Mirka's question. It almost hurt and felt so strangely foreign to him that it was only now that he realized that his wife had been right. He really hadn't smiled a lot ever since that Sunday in Paris. Then again there hadn't been much to smile about... Looking at the press release again, the smile crept back on his lips. He turned to face his wife, pulled her into a hug and placed a gentle kiss on her lips before letting go of her again, affection making his voice sound husky.

“Yes! Thank you... I love you, you know that, don't you?”

“I know.”

#*#*#*#*#

Paris

It felt like the morning after that endless Australian Open final against Novak, where the only thing he had been truly aware of at first was the fact that he felt completely numb. Everything else had registered in stages. A sense for his own being first, then sound and smell... finally awareness and fully waking up only after that. It was no different now. But this wasn't Melbourne. At least he was pretty sure it wasn't. The problem was that he had no idea where else it could be. Awareness was slowly returning but his memory failed him completely.

There were strange sounds around him and the smell was wrong too. It didn't smell like home and it didn't smell like a hotel room. It smelled of antiseptic and bleach. Then there was this unnerving beeping sound and the soft clicking of some kind of machinery that made no sense to him whatsoever. He was almost sure to hear hushed voices nearby but he couldn't make out any words. The voices sounded worried and there was an urgency to their tone of voice that unnerved him.

The sense for his own body returned to him next and it was not a good feeling. He felt weak and that was an understatement. It wasn't like the numbness he had felt that day years ago in Melbourne but a fatigue that seemed to reach so deep it had settled in his bones. That wasn't the only thing wrong though. He felt... restrained. Something was sticking to his chest, to both his arms and there was something seriously wrong about his neck as well, like somebody had tried to place some sort of little paperweight there. There was something wrong with his legs too but he couldn't put a finger on what exactly the problem was.

The pain registered last and once it did it was impossible to ignore. The soreness in his throat was easily tolerable but it was uncomfortable none the less, especially as he had no idea what had caused it. The real problem was his lower left side, both front and back. At first there was a dull throbbing that quickly turned into a sharper, more pronounced pain and now that he concentrated on it, it felt like his whole side was on fire. He tried to make his discomfort known, tried to alert somebody to his predicament but all he managed was a hoarse moan that sounded pathetic even to his own ears.

It did do the trick though because a split second later there was a warm hand on his arm and then he could hear a voice that sounded very familiar to him. He needed a moment to process who it was that was speaking to him and it made as little sense as the rest of this strange experience. It was his mother's voice and she sounded very worried. He tried to call out to her, tried to let her know he had heard her but his voice was unable to carry and all he managed was a throaty whisper. 

“Rafael? Can you hear me dear?”

“Mama?”

“Yes, dear. It's me. Can you open your eyes for me?“

It was a simple request but it confronted him with a monumental problem – getting his eyelids to cooperate. He hadn't even realized he still had his eyes closed until his mother had pointed it out to him and now he felt stupid about it. How could he talk to her without looking at her... He tried to blink but his eyelids seemed to suddenly weigh a ton and it took a conscious effort to focus on blinking his eyes open.

The first time he tried there seemed to be way too much light and he quickly squeezed his eyes shut again. The next time he tried to be more careful and he was rewarded. His mother's face swam into focus very very close by but instead of feeling relieved at the sight of her, he couldn't help but worry. She looked so pale and tired... He tried again, his voice carrying a tiny bit better this time.

“Mama...”

“Oh honey, it's so good to see you with your eyes open again...”

“Hurts...”

“I know, honey. I know. It's just for a little while I promise. I know you're confused and hurting but I need you to try and focus. Can you do that for me?”

He tried to make sense of what she was telling him, tried to understand why she allowed for him to hurt so much instead of helping him but he really couldn't. He didn't understand what was happening to him and that made him edge ever closer to the panic that threatened to overwhelm him at all this pain and confusion. When his mother turned her face away and spoke in a completely different tone of voice to some other person he couldn't see, it didn't exactly make things any better for him.

“I don't think this is of any use... Can't you give him something for the pain?”

There was another voice now, a voice he didn't recognize and it spoke with a funny accent that sounded distinctively French to him. He couldn't make out the words that other person said but he could hear what his mother said in response and judging from that, there was no chance that mysterious stranger was here to help and take the pain away.

“So what?! This is barbaric! You have to help him!”

“Rafael dear, there is somebody here who needs to ask you a couple of questions... Can you do that for us? Answer a couple of questions?”

Before he got a chance to gather a couple of words to let her know that he would try, a dull pain suddenly spread through his chest and his breath hitched in his throat. The steady beeping he had heard before suddenly sounded erratic and then there was some sort of alarm going off very close to his head. He swallowed against the dryness in his throat and tried to tell his mother that he didn't feel up for any questions after all. Frankly he felt quite ready to pass out...

“Don't feel so good...”

“What is it, dear? Are you in any more pain?!”

“Chest feels funny...”

He zoned out of the conversation and allowed his eyes to drift shut again. The damn throbbing in his chest compared with the other, sharper pain in his side was threatening to take his breath away. He struggled with his next breath and was suddenly distracted when there was a soft and uncomfortable tugging at his neck that he could do nothing about. The next thing he knew there was a sudden warmth spreading in his chest and that was the last thing he registered before everything faded to black. He never heard his mother's desperate plea for an explanation.

“What's wrong with him?”

Ana Maria was shoved aside unceremoniously as Dr. Mallarde called for a nurse for help and stepped closer to the bed. He checked the readings on the monitors, especially the EKG that had been the one to suddenly give off a shrill alarm tone and ordered the nurse who had just entered the room to help. The conversation was a rapid exchange in French and Ana Maria had no idea what it was all about.

But the nurse was back from the far end of the room where a row of cupboards were located in no time, holding two syringes in her hands. She handed one of them to the doctor who found a vein on Rafa's arm to push the needle of the syringe into, while the nurse emptied the contents of the second syringe into the central IV at her sons neck through one of the free IV access ports. It took less than 10 seconds for the alarm on the EKG monitor to die down. Both the nurse and the doctor visibly relaxed and only now did Dr. Mallarde take the time to explain to her what had just happened.

“He's suffering from arrhythmia. His heart beat is irregular. We counteracted the effects with the medication for now but there's no way of telling when it will happen again. The one thing I can tell you for sure is that it will.”

“Why?! What caused this?!”

“I can only speculate at this moment. It could be a number of things.. I have a certain suspicion though. I need you to leave. We need to do some tests.”

“Is he... is he still awake?”

“No. He lost consciousness and I want to keep it that way. We will push some mild sedation and a dose of painkillers now. He won't feel any pain any longer. Please leave now. You can wait at my office with the rest of your family. I will come to you once I know what it is we're dealing with here.”

Dr. Mallarde left no room for argument and Ana Maria felt utterly spent after what she had just been forced to go through. She had been happy before – happy and elated at the thought of finally seeing her son open his eyes again and being able to talk to him… But none of it had gone as she had hoped or as Dr. Mallarde had planned it. He had warned her that Rafael would not make much of any sense and wouldn't be able to concentrate for any extended period of time. What he had not told her was that he would be in pain... and that there would be a major medical scare in the process.

Right now she felt completely numb and overwhelmed by the enormity of it all, none of her previous joy and excitement left. She left the ICU on autopilot and was greeted by the rest of the family anxiously waiting outside. Of course they wanted to know, wanted answers but she really didn't have it within herself to answer any of those or tell them in depth what had gone wrong. She barely even knew herself for that matter. Instead she relayed the information that Dr. Mallarde had given her – that there was some sort of setback that had yet to be determined and that they were to wait at his office.

They had been sitting in utter silence, anxiety running high and worries so palpable in the air that one could practically touch them. Neither one of them had tried to press Ana for any further details. She looked too fragile for even the simplest amount of pressure and judging from that distant expression in her eyes, she probably wouldn't have been able to answer their questions anyway. They didn't have to wait for long though. Dr. Mallarde arrived ten minutes later and he jumped right to the point.

”I'm not sure how much information has been relayed between you as of yet about what happened. Rafael did indeed wake up as we had planned but being under sedation so long he was pretty incoherent. A couple of minutes into it, his heart rate started showing irregularities. We were able to counteract those with medication but he lost consciousness again in the process. We have him sedated again now and we ran a quick blood test that helped us determine the cause for the arrhythmia. It's the damaged kidney causing this. I know I said we have to wait for him to get stronger but I'm afraid there is no time to waste. The surgery needs to be done. Now.”

The urgency in the doctor's voice was frightening. Even in the worst days of the abdominal infection raging in Rafa's body, Dr. Mallarde had been serious but always calm and collected. Now he seemed... frantic, at least by the standards they had come to appreciate about the man. And it didn't help that he wasn't willing to allow them a chance to think this over. Reeling from the information that had just been dumped in their lap, the family's first reaction – in the voice of Sebastian - was an adverse one.

“You... you want us to agree to surgery? After everything he's been through? After repeatedly being warned – by you in particular – that he is too weak for any extensive or invasive procedures? You haven't even properly explained to us what is wrong with him... How could this happen?!”

“It's a very simple explanation but a serious one at that. As I said, the damaged kidney is what is causing the problem. It doesn't filter toxins properly. The toxicity levels in his blood are rising, especially the level of potassium. That is what caused the arrhythmia and it has to be dealt with.”

“You said there was a drug therapy you could try.”

“Not as a solution but as a way of treating the symptoms. I cannot tell you how strongly I feel about the need for that surgery. Those levels of potassium are dangerous. He could go into cardiac arrest.”

The doctor's words of a possibility for a heart attack hung in the room like a toxic cloud. He had emphasized how serious Rafa's condition was but now each and every member of his family understood the need for urgency with this decision. Still it was an impossible choice to make. They had forced to watch first hand how the last surgery and the complications arising from it had almost been to much for Rafa to fight through. It had been just days since he had finally managed to pull through the fever and infection, was finally getting better and now the doctor was asking them to risk all that again. Ana Maria's soft, almost whispered voice cut in on the discussion between doctor and father.

“This should be his decision, not ours.”

“He can't decide this.”

“He was awake was he not? You could have asked him!”

“Yes he was. But barely. Not enough for informed patient consent.”

She huffed at that. It was barely an argument in her book. Barely coherent or not, this was her son's body they were talking about – his health, his organs they wanted to cut from his body and his long way on a rocky road to recovery. It should have been his decision as well. After the initial attack there had been no time to waste and they hadn't been asked only informed afterwards and asked to sign some papers for legal reasons when it had come to the surgery. This time however it was different and in light of the last few days, Ana refused to simply give in without a fight for some other, better, less daunting solution.

“The last time you performed surgery, he almost died of an infection afterwards and that was just eight days ago... And now you want to cut into him again?”

“I do not want to. But I don't think there's any other option left here.”

“If we agree to this – and I'm not saying that we are – what would that mean for him?”

Toni – ever the pragmatic one – was the one to ask the practical questions instead of the emotionally loaded one. Dr. Mallarde actually appreciated that. He knew he hadn't convinced Rafa's family yet but he also knew that the more he talked, the more chances he got to explain the procedure and assure them of the benefits over the risks, the easier it would be to get them to give their consent. Unfortunately there wasn't a lot of reassuring information that he could give them. But he hoped being open and honest would help make his case.

“Basically it means that we start from scratch. He will need to be back on sedation and pain management, back on the ventilator. If all goes well – and I know how ironic this sounds given the events of the last few days – we should be able to wake him three to four days after the surgery.”

“Which means about another week of unconsciousness, right?”

“Yes. It's not a favorable progression, I give you that. But I strongly believe it's the only one we have.”

“And in the long run? What would removing a vital organ mean for him, for his every day life?”

On this point Dr. Mallarde finally felt he was getting somewhere because in the long run, there were no adverse consequences he needed to relay to the family. It was the surgery – or more precisely the timing and urgency of it – that was the problem, not the outcome of it. Feeling a renewed confidence he nodded at the question before answering to it.

“There are a couple of precautions necessary but given his life style they are most definitely already in place. A healthy diet, lots of exercise, medical check-ups at a regular interval... Generally speaking there won't be much of any change for him.”

“What about tennis? Would he still be able to play? On a professional level I mean...”

“With enough time for a complete recovery and some extra precautions. I don't see why not.”


	17. Reprieve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everybody - I'm finally back to my regular schedule.  
> Some more medical stuff in this chapter and no Roger.  
> He'll be in the next update though. 
> 
> As we're close to it, I decided whoever writes the 100th review gets a onseshot as a treat.   
> I'll get back to whoever wins the prize :D
> 
> Hope you like the update.
> 
> <>°O°<>

*That same day - evening*

 

It hadn't been much of a decision process from there on out. As much as they all feared and hated the idea of sending Rafa through the grueling process of yet another surgery, the ICU doctor had been very clear that there was no other option left. There had been a short heated discussion – mainly between Ana Maria and Sebastian – but in the end they had reached a consensus. It wasn't easy, it wasn't pleasant, it was scary as hell but it had to be done. They agreed to the proposed surgery.

Dr. Mallarde had sprung into action after that and had spoken to a surgeon immediately. Things had progressed so fast from there on out that it was dizzying. They scheduled the surgery for the same afternoon and that in itself was testament to how urgently Rafa's condition needed to be managed. For the second time within little more than a week the family had been ushered into the private waiting room on the surgical ward and that was where they all were now – waiting and hoping.

Maribel had been watching both her parents closely ever since settling down in the waiting room for the second time within less than 10 days. She had her phone and a book with her and could have occupied herself otherwise but she couldn't help but feel like she needed to keep an eye on those two and make sure they stayed civil with one another. 

She had been amazed how well they had managed to pull together throughout the last couple of days ever since her brother had been admitted to hospital. It was a simple fact that of course they had shoved past animosities aside for the good of their firstborn but there also hadn't been any grounds for discussion so far because they had wholeheartedly agreed on how to handle the situation up to this point. Only now – with the decision for the surgery or against it – had they been at odds and no matter how much they loved and cared for their son, they had been unable to keep their emotions in check as the argument about what to do, how to decide arose.

It had been a simple statement of opinions first, a disagreement in how to decide. They had been vocal but civil about it, each of them speaking their mind, each of them listening to the arguments the other had. But it hadn't stayed that way when they came to realize there was no common ground for them to chose from. It hadn't exactly been ugly, but it had been emotional and full of tiny venomous accusations and innuendos. They had been out to hurt one another and it had needed her uncle to remind them that this was not about them but about Rafael. That had done the trick. Her mother had won the argument and now here they were...

Her parents' reaction to the waiting game had reversed this time. It was her mother pacing at the far end of the room close to the windows, putting as much distance between herself and her ex husband as she could, and her father sitting opposite of Maribel on one of the plastic chairs, stiff and still with his arms crossed in front of his chest and his gaze fixed on the floor. Maribel was a little surprised when she found her father looking up at her all of a sudden, asking for the time in a low tone of voice. It was her mother who answered before she could though and unfortunately it caused another stir between them.

“How long have we been sitting here?”

“Two hours. They said it might take up to four.”

“I know that. I was there.”

“Don't snap at me.”

“Guys, please... Don't do this. This is not the time or the place.”

Maribel pleaded without thinking and it had the desired effect. Both her parents had the decency to look shaken and embarrassed at her words and then went back to their respective pacing and staring not arguing any further. Maribel sighed a soft sigh. She hated this, hated the situation they were in and hated the memory of how they had been at each other's throats in making a decision regarding their son's health. It had been difficult to watch. Even after all those years of being separated, emotions were still running high, especially in a situation as trying and difficult as this. It probably would have been easier had they agreed on the matter of her brother's surgery. But they had been on two sides of a scale that couldn't have been further apart.

Her mother had been completely in favor of the surgery. Maribel had understood that. After all her mother had been there when Rafa's condition had deteriorated yet again because of the problems the failing kidney caused. She had to watch as Dr. Mallarde tried to help Rafa and sent him back into unconsciousness in the process. She knew how serious the problem was first hand and that was why she had been adamant the surgery be performed. 

Her father however had been completely and utterly against to the point of irrationality. Maribel assumed all he wanted was to protect his son. He didn't want to risk any further complications, didn't want Rafa to take a turn for the worse yet again and for them to go through that grueling experience of complete uncertainty about the very fact if Rafa would be able to pull through all this horrifying complications yet again. He wanted to err on the side of caution and he wanted to wait.

Maribel was sure that her father was still going over the argument in his mind again and again. She didn't even want to think about what would happen if her mother's decision turned out to be a bad one and something – even a fraction of a thing – went wrong during Rafa's surgery or afterwards while he recovered. It would be awful enough already if her brother would come down with a fever or some other problem because of this second surgery but it would be unbearable if it would also cause their parents to throw accusations and blame at one another, trying to hurt one another in the process. If there was one thing this family desperately needed it was some peace of mind. They had been through enough this week... enough to last them a lifetime.

Time ticked away slowly and minute after agonizingly slow minute passed. Maribel had given up on watching her parents eventually and had picked up her book, trying to concentrate on it. She couldn't though. She had been reading the same damn page over and over without making any sense of it. Instead she listened to the soft even breathing of her father opposite of her and the dull sounds of her mother's footsteps on the carpet of the waiting room. 

She almost jumped when another sound suddenly added itself to the ensemble. It was another set of footsteps but this one was quicker, more purposeful as the nervous pacing her mother had done for the past two and a half hours and it was outside down the corridor on the linoleum floor and quickly approaching. She looked up from her book when the door to the waiting area opened and a doctor in scrubs appeared. She immediately recognized him. 

“Dr. Jabert?”

“Hello again. I came to tell you that the surgery went well. We were able to remove the kidney and Rafael is already on his way back to ICU. It should be another half hour before you can go see him.”

“It all went well?”

“Very.”

“No complications?”

“None whatsoever.”

The exchange between her father and the surgeon was quick and by the end of it Sebastian was smiling. Her mother had stepped up to the surgeon in the meantime and for a moment Maribel was sure she would hug the man. But it seemed she found it within herself to reign in the joy and relief she felt and reached out a hand for him to shake instead. The smile she wore was lighting up her whole face and Maribel honestly couldn't remember when she had last seen her mother this relaxed. Not within the last ten days, that much was for sure. Everything beyond that seemed like a lifetime ago... But it didn't matter right now. Right now everything was good. For the first time in more than a week things actually looked up. 

“Thank you so much, doctor.”

“No need to thank me. I'm doing my job and I'm glad I could give you better news then the last time. You all look exhausted. Maybe you should go for a quick bite at the cafeteria or at least a cup of coffee?”

“No. No I don't think any one of us could eat something right now. We will go back to ICU. We can wait there until they are ready for us.”

Dr. Jabert had not debated their decision, had said his goodbyes to them and by the time they had gathered their things – and their composure – and had returned to ICU the nurses were obviously done settling Rafa in. This time Maribel had gone to see her brother alongside her mother and this time she had not felt the same worry and apprehension as every time before. It was still not an easy thing to witness.

As Dr. Mallarde had warned them before the surgery had taken place, doing this meant starting from scratch. But even though Rafa was back on the ventilator and deeply unconscious form a bunch of different medications, she still she felt so much better about it this time than she had the first time she had seen her brother like this. It was almost scary how quick and easily one was able to adjust to an awful situation if the need arose. The ICU doctor joined them a couple of minutes into their visit, bringing more detailed news with him. 

“I just received an update from our laboratory. The preliminary lab results on the removed kidney showed necrotic tissue around the injury which had already started to spread further into the organ. It's a good thing we caught this early and acted on that incentive as quickly as we did. Allowing the necrosis to spread could have caused all kinds of problems otherwise.”

“So there's no way you could have saved the kidney otherwise?”

“No. Not with something like this.”

Maribel watched her mother nod slowly. Hadn't she known any better she would have assumed the older woman was pleased with herself. But she knew it wasn't like that. It was the sheer feeling of relief that caused that joyous expression to spread on her face, knowing that the very difficult decision she had been forced to make on her son's behalf had not only been the right one but had obviously prevented him from further harm as well. Maribel followed her mother's gaze as she let her eyes wander over her son's facial features, lax from the copious amounts of narcotics and painkillers coursing through his bloodstream

“And he's really okay? You were very cautious prior to the surgery. You said it was a difficult choice because he was still so weak from the initial surgery and the infection... He's really alright?”

“Yes. Definitely. I spoke to Dr. Jabert and he assured me there were no complications of any kind. There was no excess bleeding, his pulse and blood pressure held steady and the narcotics caused no adverse reactions. I'm a little surprised myself but he held himself very well through the whole procedure.”

They stood in silence for a long moment, all of them simply watching Rafa in his drug induced sleep, oblivious to their presence and to the ordeal all of them – including him – had been through today. Maribel couldn't help but feel nervous. She gathered her courage, hoping to gain perspective from the doctor on what to expect now that this newest crisis had been dealt with. 

“And what now?”

“Now we give him some time to rest and heal. If his vital signs hold steady and there's no indication for fever or any other kind of adverse reaction to the surgery, we will wean him off sedation by tomorrow morning.”

“And then he will he wake up?”

“Not right away of course. We'll keep to the same schedule as last time. It will be at least two more days.”

“But then?”

“Yes. Then he will wake up.”

Maribel nodded at the information, a soft smile spreading on her face. Her gaze fixed on her brother again and for the first time in over a weak she actually felt relaxed and hopeful. She was looking forward to the days to come instead of fearing them. She couldn't wait for Rafa to wake up so that she could tell her brother that she had missed him, that she loved him and for him to never scare her like this ever again or there would be hell to pay. She smiled at Dr. Mallarde.

“Thank you, Doctor.”


	18. Welcome back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally I have a chapter with no medical stuff in it for you and there is some progress into the right direction :D.  
> Both Rafa's and Roger's POV in todays update, change in POV indicated by '#*#*#*#*#'
> 
> Hope you like it!
> 
> <>°O°<>

*July 2nd, Tuesday - Several days later*

It had been two additional days before Dr. Mallarde had declared Rafa ready to be woken up. Apparently the levels of toxicity in his blood were not returning back to normal as quickly as the doctor had hoped for, now that the lone kidney remaining had to work twice as hard to filter the blood. Slowly but gradually the results of the frequent blood tests had turned up more satisfactory stats though and by the 11th day of Rafa's hospital stay, Dr. Mallarde had deemed him well enough to return to consciousness. 

Rafa's wake up process had happened in stages and it had been an agonizingly slow wait. Just like before he had woken up a couple of times without really being aware of his surroundings or making much sense. Things had progressed from there on and Dr. Mallarde had been adamant that somebody of the family was there at all times to make sure Rafa wouldn't fully wake up being alone. After everything he had been through, the doctor felt it was very important that Rafa saw a familiar face to keep him calm and help him understand what had happened to him. His family had decided on a shift of six hours each and it also was the very first time Toni had actually decided to visit his nephew in ICU along with them.

From everything he knew from the experiences the other members of the family had relayed, Rafael was looking a lot better than he had when first being admitted to ICU. Somehow that was difficult to imagine because in Toni's eyes his nephew still looked unbelievably vulnerable and fragile. It was seven in the morning and he had only been here an hour, replacing Maribel who had spent the night at her brother's side. Rafael had been asleep when Toni had arrived but over the course of the last hour he had been restless and closer to waking up. When the young man started stirring and Toni could see him blink his eyes, he tried to coax Rafa into looking at him.

“Rafael? It's Toni. If you can hear me, please look at me.”

His nephew didn't react right away but Toni was sure Rafa had heard him. He tried again, gently coaxing the younger man along his way to wakefulness and this time Rafael's eyes blinked open. His reaction was slow and sluggish and it took a full minute before he managed to fully focus his gaze on his uncle. The confusion slowly faded from Rafa's face and a tired smile appeared on his lips as he recognized his uncle. Toni mirrored the gesture not even aware of the smile that stole itself on his face. 

“There you are... Are you in any pain?”

“No... I... I don't think so. I feel... sort of numb... I...”

His nephew had a hard time focusing on the simple question and Toni could see how Rafa tried to get a better understanding of how he felt. He could practically watch how Rafa took a mental inventory of his own body and then just stopped mid sentence. Toni had no idea what it was that Rafa had so suddenly become aware of and he felt alarmed at the expression that had appeared on his nephew's face. He stared at his uncle in absolute horror.

“I... I can't feel my legs...”

“Don't worry about that right now. It will be okay.”

His uncle's words did nothing to reassure him. Rafa barely even registered that his uncle was talking to him over the sound of blood rushing in his ears. He couldn't feel his legs and from the damn position he lay in on the bed, he couldn't even see them, he couldn't even tell if they were there! He needed to know, needed to look and the only way to do so was to sit up from that half seated, half lying position he was in due to the angle of the hospital bed. 

He dug both hands into the soft mattress and tried to push his upper body into a sitting position. The second he moved and put pressure on the abdominal muscles pain exploded in his stomach. It hurt – brutally so – and took his breath away. He squeezed his eyes shut, tried to breathe through the pain and then there were hands on his shoulders as his uncle sprang into action immediately, getting up abruptly, reaching out a strong hand and pushed him back down into the pillows. His tone of voice had lost all calm composure and was almost frantic now.. 

“What do you think you're doing?! You had major surgery! Lie down!”

“But I can't see... I can't feel them! What happened?! I... I don't remember... Why... Are they... still there?”

“Of course, boy. Don't be ridiculous.”

It hadn't been meant as harshly as it came out but Rafael was still extremely agitated and Toni needed him to calm down and listen, if they didn't want to risk a nurse appearing and simply ending the emotional turmoil with the contents of a syringe... The one thing he could do to help ease Rafa's anxiety was to let him see that everything was indeed alright with his legs. He pushed the thin blanket aside, taking a hold of Rafa's left leg just above the ankle and gently raised it until Rafa could see his foot appear in his line of vision. He could see the leg now, could see his uncle holding onto it but he still couldn't feel any of it. 

“See. Everything's fine.”

“But I can't feel them. I... I can't move... I can't...”

Rafa was still on the brink of hyperventilating and that certainly wasn't a favorable development. Toni knew Rafa would somehow manage to obsess over the loss of sensation until he would cause himself harm or would simply pass out again. The one thing of utmost important was for Rafa to calm down. Toni needed a moment to realize that he was squeezing his nephews leg reassuringly at the spot he had held it before and needed yet another moment to become aware of the fact that Rafa couldn't feel any of it... This wasn't exactly easy for him either. As touch wasn't helping, Toni tried to talk Rafa into calming back down.

“Rafael, please try to calm yourself. I know this is hard and I know you are scared but I need you to take a deep, long breath if you can and just try to relax. I will explain everything to you but you need to calm down.”

Rafa closed his eyes and tried to do as he had been told, taking slow, measured breaths. It would be okay... his uncle had promised him that it would be okay… His legs were still there and whatever the reason was that he couldn't feel them, it was supposed to be nothing to worry about and he trusted his uncle not to sugarcoat anything and actually tell the truth. It was frightening to say the least but he was neither helping himself nor his recovery if he dissolved into panic. He breathed in and out deeply once more before he found the courage to open his eyes again and look at his uncle, seeking answers from him.

“What happened to my legs?”

“You're at the hospital, Rafael. You were hurt and that is why you can't move your legs. It's just temporary though. It's a side effect of your injury. It was very close to the spine, causing swelling, which causes the paralysis and the loss of sensation. But it will return once the swelling goes down. It will be fine and you will be able to walk. There will be no lasting damage. Do you understand?”

“Yes... But I... I don't remember getting injured...”

“Now there's no easy way to tell you this but this is the intensive care unit of the hospital and you have been here for quite a while now. You had emergency surgery and there were a couple of complications that kept you from getting better right away. They kept you asleep for a while to give you a better chance to recover. But you will do just that now.”

“Why? I... I don't remember getting here... What happened?”

“What is the last thing you do remember?”

Rafa had to think about that long and hard for a moment. Without keeping his focus on it, he couldn't remember much of anything, at least nothing in detail. He remembered that he had been in Paris, that it had been the French Open and he remembered being excited about the fact that he would be competing against Roger in the final. Everything about that Sunday of the final was shrouded in darkness however. The memory came back very slowly and in fragments but finally there was a somewhat complete picture.

“Roland Garros. Playing the final against Roger. It was the second set, I think... I... I was about to serve for that set... and then... There was pain and I think Roger was there and... and Carlos. He... he was talking to me but I can't remember what he said. I... I was... there was a lot of pain... and then... I... I don't know. What happened to me?”

“You were attacked.”

“Attacked? By whom?”

“We don't know. There's a police investigation going on and they probably will want to talk to you sooner or later but so far they haven't come up with any suspects.”

Something else that Rafa hadn't even thought about this far suddenly pushed itself to the forefront of his thinking. His uncle had said something about this being the ICU of a hospital and that there had been problems on his way to recovery and that he had been asleep for a while. But his uncle had not disclosed any details about the actual time frame to him. He had no idea how long exactly he had been out for the count and he really wanted to remedy that fact..

“What day is it?”

“It's Tuesday.”

“Tuesday... I was unconscious for two whole days?”

“It's Tuesday, the second of July, Rafael.”

Rafa stared at Toni like he had just told him a very blatant lie. But there was no humor in his uncle's expression, no cheekiness. He meant what he said. Rafa let a breath of air escape through his lips and let his head drop back onto the pillow with his eyes closed. Toni could see the emotions work through his nephew's face as his still exhausted mind focused on adding up what his uncle's answer meant. Finally Rafa opened his eyes again and shook his head at him. Unfortunately there was no reassurance Toni had to offer.

“Two weeks... I have been here for two weeks? No... I... You... There has to be some kind of mistake!”

“I'm afraid not, boy. You were really very ill and it took time for you to get better. The doctor will explain it all to you in detail once he gets here. The main thing is that you are better now and that you will be completely fine. It will take time but you will be okay...”

#*#*#*#*#

London

The decision if he wanted to play the third Grand Slam of the year or not had been pretty much taken from him, when Mirka had announced that she had rented a house and had booked tickets for a musical show for her and the girls for the Sunday evening at the end of the first week of the tournament. She had made it abundantly clear that there would be no discussion about this and that he was supposed to get over himself, pack his things and get going. 

He still wasn't sure whether to be grateful or angry with her. Mirka had made him come here and he still couldn't shake the feeling that he shouldn't be. It all felt wrong somehow. Wimbledon just wasn't the same without Rafa there. It was as simple as that and Roger had no problem admitting to that fact. It wasn't the first time he wasn't here but it was somehow ironic that it was exactly ten years ago it had happened the first time. Providence seemed to be a big part of their lives at the moment. Providence and misery... 

It wasn't the competition that worried Roger. It was the fact that he would come face to face with a whole bunch of people that all knew what had happened in Paris and were probably mighty curious to hear his version of the events. It was the very last thing he wanted. He didn't want to speak about Paris with anyone – not with other players and especially not with the media. But this was a close knit circuit and press conferences were mandatory... He couldn't exactly run away.

After hearing that Rafa had beaten the infection that had threatened his life so dramatically and was finally on the mend, things had looked up for Roger. He had spent more time with his kids, had been more appreciative of everything Mirka had done for him and hadn't had another nightmare. He still thought about Paris often, he still blamed himself for what had happened to Rafa but it wasn't invading his every thought any more. He and Mirka had even started sharing the same bedroom again and he had hoped he was finally over the godawful experience.

He had been wrong. The very first night after arriving in London and having his first practice session on the grounds of Wimbledon, the nightmares had returned with a vengeance. This time they had been a very strange mixture of memories that had mashed up into a confusing and heartbreaking dream. His dream had taken him back eleven years to that already very late afternoon on which Rafa had won his very first Wimbledon title.

It was the last game of the match, the last point played and the match was over just like he remembered it. Rafa dropped to the ground, obviously both overwhelmed and overjoyed at the outcome. Up to that point everything had been as Roger remembered it and then the memory had veered off into the nightmare. Rafa never got up again to claim his trophy and title but just lay there on the grass in the ever growing darkness around him, unmoving.

The stadium had suddenly been void of any spectators and Roger was standing right next to his fallen rival, looking down. There was blood, a lot of it. On the grass, on Rafa's skin, on the once perfectly white clothes... simply everywhere. But Rafa was awake. Alive. The expression in his eyes however was dull, his facial expression tense with pain. When he spoke his tone of voice was just as pain ridden as his facial features but it was surprisingly free of any accent when the younger man cast his eyes up at him, accusation written all over the pain marred features.

“Why didn't you stop him? Why didn't you help me?”

Roger had woken in a cold sweat from that at three in the morning and he hadn't been able to go back to sleep. It made going to the tournament grounds and interacting with other people even more difficult because now he was not only nervous but tired as well and that made him irritable. Which was probably the reason why he was a bit snippy when one of the younger players approached him for a chat. It was one of those random encounters as they tended to happen when a limited space was cramped with a whole bunch of players and at first it had been pleasant – a pleasant little exchange of meaningless words... at first. 

“Roger, hey. It's good to see you. We missed you at Halle. Was there something wrong?”

“No. Everything's fine.”

There was a nod of acknowledgment and suddenly an awkward silence loaded with tension. It was easy to tell what the problem was. The younger man wanted to ask him about Paris, about the final, about the attack... about Rafa. It was so easy to read, it was almost ridiculous. Roger could tell by the way the younger man looked at him, by the way he held himself. But there was a certain reluctance there, a fear of asking. Roger couldn't help it. He snapped.

“If you have something to ask, ask me. Don't just stand there and stare.”

“No, I... It's nothing. Sorry... I didn't mean to intrude.”

The reaction came quickly and was so timid it would have been funny, hadn't the younger man suddenly looked so scared of him... He scurried off into the opposite direction like he had been bitten without so much as a word of goodbye and Roger couldn't help but feel satisfaction at seeing the other man retreat. His wife next to him - who had followed the exchange in speechless disbelief – was not amused though. Mirka berated him.

“Roger!”

“What?!”

“That was not exactly polite of you.”

“ _He_ stopped _me_. He was the one being nosy. I didn't do anything. I was just speaking my mind.”

“Like during the press conference?”

Roger sighed. The press conference... Of course she would not let it slide and remind him that he had held himself anything but gracefully and expertly there. But he had simply been too worked up and irritated to care. It had been a French journalist of all people who had asked him in an audacious tone of voice why he had been away from the tour ever since Roland Garros and had hinted all too clearly that it had to do with the attack on Rafa at the final.

_“You pulled out of the tournaments in Stuttgart and Halle. Why was that?”_

_“I wasn't feeling well.”_

_“Is it because of what happened during the French Open final?”_

_“I will not talk about that.”_

_“He's better though. Nadal. Did you know?”_

_“I did not. I'm not in contact with anybody on Rafa's team or family. I don't have any detailed information about how he is doing.”_

_“The hospital confirmed he woke from his medically induced coma today.”_

_“I'm glad to hear that.”_

_“Seems like You did save his life after all.”_

_“As I said, I will not talk about that.”_

Roger shook his head angrily at the memory. He still felt he had done the right thing. Maybe not a calm, collected, eloquent thing but the right one none the less. The journalist had been blatant and completely disrespectful of both his feelings and the wishes he had very clearly expressed. Still it sounded like his wife was taking the side of that revolting man... He glared at her and couldn't help the sharpness to his tone of voice when he defended himself.

“Yes! Like that. That guy provoked me.”

His wife looked at him in exasperation and he half expected her to either comment on his words harshly or call him out on the very fact that he was once again deflecting and keeping the truth from her, claiming ignorance instead of telling her what bothered him. Surprisingly enough she did neither of those things. But that didn't mean she didn't know. He was absolutely sure Mirka was painfully aware that she was kept at arm's length yet again. She didn't lash out at the realization but it wasn't like she didn't punish him for it. But instead of engaging in yet another fight, she retreated. 

“Whatever you say, dear. Whatever you say... I think I will go and take the girls into London for some shopping. You'll be fine to play your match on your own, won't you? You don't need me.”


	19. Too much to think about

Paris

It was past eleven in the night and even though he was supposed to and the sedatives and pain killers coursing through his system made him drowsy, Rafa couldn't sleep. It had been a... strange day and that was putting it mildly. Ever since waking up and talking to his uncle, learning what had happened to him and what the outlook for the near future was, he had felt an odd sense of disengagement. He had understood what had happened but still it felt like he was barely more than bystander, hearing about something horrible that had happened to somebody else.

So when the doctor had come and had introduced himself and had asked him if he had any questions, Rafa had drawn a blank. He didn't even know what to ask the man, feeling so completely unsure about what was going on with his own body. Dr. Mallarde – that had been the name, he only now remembered – had been friendly and understanding, assuring him that he was there for any question arising and that he would gladly help out to clear up any worries or uncertainties if they presented themselves.

Rafa had thanked him and had felt like an idiot for not being able to even come up with so much as a question about the timeline of his recovery... or to show some interest in the details of his injuries and the complications that had arisen from them. He simply couldn't bring himself to care. It was all too fresh, too enormous to make sense of it and the rest of his first day in ICU that he was fully awake hadn't exactly helped to make those feelings go away.

His parents had come by for the afternoon visiting hours and it had been a very strange reunion. They had been overjoyed of course but there was some hesitation on their part to talk to him about certain aspects of his injury and to even so much as touch him. It seemed even now that he had woken up and was apparently better they were afraid of losing him. Like he was still too fragile and being too forceful around him with anything could somehow make him shatter… He didn’t blame them for it, understood the sentiment to a certain extent but it was exhausting to be around loved ones who didn’t act as they normally would.

Maybe that was why he had fallen asleep on them and he hadn’t even realized. It might have been the painkillers as well, he really couldn't tell. The one thing he did know was that keeping focus for any extended period of time was still quite a feat for him to accomplish. The sun had been setting when he had woken up again and he had been alone in his room – alone with his disconcerting thoughts, his worries and insecurities about this whole new reality that had presented itself to him. 

He had tried to calm himself down, had focused on his breathing, had tried to assure himself that he was fine and had then tried to find a more comfortable position in bed. It had been a very bad idea because somehow he had been able to manage to forget about the surgery and the fact that his legs were pretty much useless to him. Even now – hours later – the realization sent a stab of barely controllable panic through him every time he tried to shift in bed and found that he simply couldn’t. Moving around too much wasn’t a good idea anyway. They hadn’t told him in any details which medication he was receiving and what exactly they did, but he knew there were painkillers in the mix, strong ones. Apart from the fact that they made him tired and a little drowsy, they kept the pain away. But only as long as he didn’t jar the surgical incisions in any way. If he moved, straining them, it hurt – badly.

As there wasn't much else to do – without visitors or a nurse or anything else to distract him from himself – his thoughts had returned to that Sunday he now knew was more than two weeks ago. The sudden memory of Roger had struck him like lightning. In all this confusion and with that all consuming fear he had felt after he had realized he could neither feel nor move his legs he had been so preoccupied with himself that he had all but forgotten about the other man. He realized he hadn’t even asked about him up to this point and now it was too late and there was nobody around for him to ask.

It was both frustrating and distressing to not know how the older man was, if he had been okay and how he was doing right now. As fuzzy as the memory was, Rafa remembered Roger helping him, taking charge of the situation when he himself had been unable to do it. He had no doubt Roger's intervention was a big part of the fact that he was still here – alive and breathing. But he could only suspect. He didn't know... 

He still had a hard time understanding any of what had happened to him. He remembered some of it – mainly feelings of pain and a vague sense of being completely disconnect from his surroundings - but most of it was shrouded in a hazy mist he just couldn’t penetrate. He wasn’t even sure he really wanted to remember. From everything others had told him and what little he actually could remember, there was nothing but pain. Not a memory he felt an overabundant need to reunite with…

What got to him time and again however was not the fact that pieces of his memory had simply disappeared. It was the way it had happened. This had been no injury due to overuse or a bad movement, this hadn’t been an accident. Somebody had taken the conscious decision to attack him with a knife with the sole intent and purpose to kill him. Somebody had been determined to make sure that he died… and not in a quick and painless way…

He had no idea what had happened to the person that had attacked him... or if they ever even found out who had done it. It was frightening to think that whoever had done this, was still out there and could come back anytime... Rafa wasn't even able to move his legs... How was he supposed to defend himself from something like this if he felt useless and weak... He tried to take a deep breath to calm his thoughts and would have jumped had he been able to do that, when the door to his room opened. Fortunately it was nobody who meant him harm but the doctor who had been so kind to him earlier today. Rafa was surprised to see him here though at this hour. He tried a smile he was sure looked more like a grimace but was glad to have something else than his own horrible thoughts to focus on, even if it was just curiosity about the physician's work schedule.

“Dr. Mallarde… I would have thought you were long done for the day…”

“One of my colleagues is sick and I’m taking his shift. It seems it’s a good thing I made the rounds. You should be asleep.”

“I can’t.”

The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them and Rafa half expected to be scolded. This ward especially was all about recovery and telling a doctor he couldn't help with the process seemed like a tremendously stupid and appalling thing to say. But Dr. Mallarde wasn't taken aback or angry. He smiled instead. Rafa half expected an instruction along the lines of trying it anyway. But Dr. Mallarde surprised him, stepping further into the room and up to his bed. Rafa was pretty sure there were other, more urgent patients in this ward the doctor had to look after but it seemed to be a slow night because the doctor not only walked up to his bed but settled himself down on the one chair that was provided within the room. He was smiling – a warm, friendly, open smile and Rafa found it surprisingly easy to talk to the man even though there was no familiarity and he had only met the other man this morning. 

“Too much on your mind I assume. I could get the nurse to give you something to help you fall asleep if you would like.”

“No! No… I have done nothing but sleep for almost two weeks apparently.”

“That’s technically not true but I see what you mean. Still you should try. The best thing for you right now is rest.”

Dr. Mallarde was coaxing him into trying after all but Rafa had the distinct feeling the man didn't mind talking to him either. He had wished for somebody to speak to about what had happened after the final and now the opportunity presented itself. Maybe Dr. Mallarde was right from a medical point of view. But Rafa knew he needed peace of mind if he wanted to even try to go to sleep. And the best thing for him to achieve that right now were answers.

“Was… was anyone else hurt?”

“At the tournament site you mean? A couple of spectators I have been informed but none of them seriously so. Cuts and bruises mostly.”

“What about Mr. Federer... Roger? Was he hurt?”

“Except for the fact that it was most definitely a very difficult situation for him to deal with, I believe he was fine. At least I’m not aware of any injuries sustained, not even mild ones. I believe your family mentioned that he came by here on the evening of that Sunday to inquire after your health. It seems he was genuinely worried about you.”

“He was there when it happened…”

“Yes, I was made aware of that fact. And though he certainly had no expert medical knowledge to help him along, he still managed to handle both a disconcerting situation and a difficult administration of first aid admirably. I wouldn’t go as far as calling him your savior but he certainly had a part in getting you here in time for us to help you.”

Rafa nodded at that, unable to push down the guilt nagging at him. In all that foggy haze that was clouding his memories, he remembered one thing in absolute clarity. Roger telling him to lie still, to let him look, let him help. Roger urging him to keep his eyes open and just hold on... Dr. Mallarde was not wrong about the older man being his savior... And Rafa couldn't even tell him how grateful he was for it. Not while lying here uselessly without so much as a pad of paper and a pencil as means for communication with the outside world... His words were barely more than a whisper.

“I never even got a chance to thank him.”

“I’m sure the opportunity will present itself sooner or later.”

“How about right now?”

“Right now you should focus on yourself, your recovery. It will be enough to deal with as it is. I would assume he is in London anyway right now and probably focused on his own agenda.”

Rafa needed a moment to make sense of the doctors word. London. Wimbledon. Of course Roger was at Wimbledon…It was that time of the year already and he had missed it… To him it still felt like it was a warm, sunny Sunday late in the middle of June. But June had come and gone and he hadn’t even noticed. His birthday was already a month ago. … He swallowed hard, trying to make sense of the jumbled chaos in his mind.

“It’s difficult to understand, to make sense of it. I’m missing all this time…”

The expression on the doctor’s face changed just for the fraction of a moment but it was all too easily readable. Of course the medical professional never would have said this out loud, but Rafa did understand none the less. He was lucky two weeks time was the only thing he was missing… He gave a soft sigh and that prompted the doctor to reassure him once more before he got up from the chair, indicating it was time for Rafa to try to get that rest he so desperately needed now.

“You will adjust and in time it will get easier to make sense of what happened to you. For now you really should try to get some sleep.”


	20. Moving forward

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everybody.  
> Here's a new chapter for you.  
> Both Rafa and Roger make an appearance.
> 
> I don't feel very inspired writing much of anything at the moment.  
> But as this story is finished, I will keep to the pace.  
> Maybe finally getting to watch some tennis tonight will help me overcome writer's block   
> *fingerscrossed*
> 
> Hope you like it. 
> 
> <>°O°<>

*July 3rd - Wednesday*

Paris 

 

The French doctor had come by again the next morning and he had been very patient with him. They had another long talk about every last detail of the medical nightmare that had been the past thirteen days of his life. Rafa hated the fact that he had lost almost two weeks of his life, a time he had no recollection of and would never ever get back. It was scary to think he had simply slept through it all and all of a sudden June had turned into July... But from everything Dr. Mallarde had told him, he was better of this way. 

The doctor had explained what had happened to him, what he had been forced to fight through. He had told him about the surgery and the infection. He had told him about the temporary paralysis in more detail and he had told him about the removal of the kidney... The conversation had happened in stages though, because it was just too much to take in all at once. Even now Rafa was pretty sure he had already forgotten half of what the doctor had said to him.

There was an enormity to it that went beyond the medical facts. Dr. Mallarde had never said it in so many words but it was clear to Rafa that he had been very close to death at certain points during the last two weeks... and he hadn't even been aware of it. He could have simply slipped away without ever waking up again, without ever knowing... That thought was very, very hard to deal with and for now he didn't allow himself to think about it. A panic attack was the last thing he wanted and he knew with absolute certainty that he would have one if he allowed the thought to linger... 

For the moment all of his focus was on the near future. He still had a very long and difficult road to recovery ahead of him, starting with the simple fact that he had to wait for his own body to deal with the swelling around his spine and give him back both feeling and mobility in his legs. And of course there were other adjustments to be made. Even as Dr. Mallarde had assured him there would be no drastic changes in his lifestyle due to the loss of the second kidney, Rafa had a hard time believing it. He had a hard time believing a full recovery was possible anyway. He simply felt too weak, too exhausted to believe in even a semblance of normalcy.

Right now however normalcy forced it's way into his life. He was supposed to have visitors and he wasn't exactly sure he felt up to that yet. Knowing what had happened to him, knowing how touch and go things had been scared him, but it didn't affect him as much as he had expected, not really. He felt sort of detached about it. After all he hadn't been aware of any of it. But his family had been here the entire time, forced to deal with how bad his condition was and he could only imagine how much pain and despair that had caused them. He couldn't help feeling guilty. It hadn't been his fault he had been hurt but he was still the reason his family had been forced to go through such a trying time...

A soft knock on the door to his room in ICU brought him back to the reality around him. He looked up and found Maribel standing in the frame of the door, smiling. He hadn't seen his sister since... since before the final. Keeping a very close eye on her, he was sure to detect that she was a lot paler than when he had last seen her and maybe even a little bit thinner. Obviously these last two weeks had taken a huge toll on her and he hated that he was the reason for it. She had approached the bed, standing next to him and seeing her this close he was sure she had lost both weight and sleep over the last two weeks. An apology was already right there on the tip of his tongue but Maribel didn't give him a chance to say it.

“Mari...”

“You look so much better... How are you feeling?”

“Exhausted and uncomfortable. My back hurts and I can't turn or lie on my right side. I can barely move around in this bed. If I do... it hurts. And my legs aren't any better. I can't feel them at all. It's... scary.”

“Serves you right for scaring us all like that! Never ever do that again.”

“I never meant to...”

She had said it with a cheeky grin on her face but realized to late that Rafa either hadn't seen it or hadn't cared. The last thing she had wanted to do was to accuse him of something he hadn't had any control over whatsoever. He was already right in the middle of apologizing for being sick, for having been hurt. Apologizing for something that wasn't his fault in the least. Maribel did the one thing she could think of to shut him up. She leaned closer and hugged him – carefully. When she let go again she smiled and shook her head at him, trying to keep the mood light. 

“Oh come on, no apologizing. I was just teasing... Obviously you're not in the mood for a bad joke. But that's okay. I'm just glad you're finally better. I was so worried about you... I was afraid you wouldn't... Anyway. You're better now. That's all that matters.”

They stayed silent for a moment, before Maribel pointed to the array of medical equipment still surrounding her brother, hoping that changing the subject would help them to get rid of the awkwardness they both felt at the moment. Her brother seemed grateful for the offer at a different topic and jumped at the chance of talking about something a little safer than his feelings. 

“When does all of this come off? You don't need it any more, do you?”

“As soon as they transfer me out of here. Dr. Mallarde said once I would be stepped down to a normal ward, all the monitoring equipment comes off. They want to keep the damn central line though. For hydration and pain management and just in case there's anything else I might need. I hate that thing.”

“Who wouldn't. Looks uncomfortable.”

“It is. All of this stuff is. To be honest I don't think I would be able to sleep without the drugs... Trying to sleep when you feel restrained and unable to move around properly... it's not easy.”

“I'm just glad you're finally back to a normal rhythm of being awake and asleep. Not having that... Forget it. I'm rambling. I did bring Mama. She should be here any minute.”

That piece of information confused him. Somewhere in the farthest corner of his mind he had a memory tucked away of Dr. Mallarde telling him that he couldn't have more than two visitors at the time while still in ICU. He had expected Maribel to be alone and his parents to visit afterwards, together. It seemed he had been wrong but he didn't understand where his mother had disappeared to. This was an intensive care unit after all – it wasn't like she could have stepped out into a lobby or bathroom here. He raised a questioning eyebrow at his sister. 

“Why any minute? Where is she? Is she okay?”

“Of course she's okay. She's talking to your doctor.”

“About what?”

“Getting you home. Or at least closer to home until you're recovered. She and papa talked to Dr. Cotorro this morning and they agreed it would be best for you to go to Barcelona and finish your recovery there.”

“How about what I want?”

“Do you want to stay here?”

“God no.”

Maribel grinned at him cheekily at his confession. Even though Rafa didn't like the idea that his family had simply gone ahead and made decisions on his behalf without asking for his input or opinion, he still felt it was the right thing to do. Dr. Mallarde was nice, patient and certainly qualified but he didn't know the other man. Having a doctor around he knew and trusted felt like something that would help him stay both calm and focused on his recovery. It was definitely a good idea. The only thing he felt uncomfortable about was that he hadn't even gotten the chance to come up with it himself. This had been decided for him... But he decided no to dwell on it. His mother – both his parents – had meant well. What really mattered was the fact that this helped his recovery. He might have only been fully awake for a day but he couldn't wait to leave the hospital and go back home. Next to him Maribel was chuckling softly. 

“See. Leave it to mama to know better what you want than you do herself.”

Outside in the corridor in front of Rafa's room the conversation between Ana Maria and Dr. Mallarde was currently revolving around the same topic. She had been unsure how the doctor would react once she talked to him about the transfer, had feared he would feel insulted but luckily she had underestimated the grace and professionalism the French doctor held and prided himself with. The whole request and the acceptance to it went by way more smoothly and undramatic than she had ever expected. 

“Dr. Mallarde, I need to talk to you about something regarding my son's recovery.”

“Yes?”

“We want him transferred.”

“Excuse me?”

“Look, this is nothing personal. We just feel that he would benefit from being closer to home and in the care of a doctor he has known and trusted for a long time. This isn't exactly easy for him...”

“Where do you want him to be transferred to?”

“It's a private clinic. In Barcelona.”

“I see. Well I don't see why not. He's stable and doing well with his recovery. Transportation shouldn't be a problem. If this is what you want, what he wants, I will set it up.”

“Thank you, Dr. Mallarde.”

#*#*#*#*#

London 

Mirka had been true to her word, because when Roger stepped out on court for his first round match against a British qualifier by the name of Martins, his player's box was appallingly empty. He couldn't believe she had actually done that... Then again she had warned him she would and she was nothing if not consistent, he had to give her that. He knew he couldn't allow his wife's strange version of punishment to break his concentration but it was easier said then done.

The first set was over in 32 minutes and Roger won it comfortably at 6:2. The kid wasn't bad – otherwise he never would have been able to fight through the qualifiers – but he was inexperienced and overeager. He knew it was too early to tell and that it would be arrogant to think about the second match already just yet but he had a good feeling about the outcome of this first match he played after the French Open final...

The second set developed and it was just a tiny bit closer. Roger had managed one break so far and was up 4:3 on the kid's serve when it happened. It had been a long ralley, the pace and quality high when the kid slipped on the grass while trying to get to a shot, fell awkwardly, yelped and pushed a hand into his lower back, staying down for the count for a moment, trying to get his breath under control and his feet back under him.

For Roger everything around him simply stopped for a second... and then shifted. The grass turned to clay, the young Brit's face morphed into more familiar features and the hand that was pulled back after getting his bearings didn't come away clean but tinged in red... Reality and memory were blurring together, threatening to overwhelm him and it took a deep breath and squeezing his eyes tightly shut to block out the memory. Things went downhill from here. 

Whenever he looked at the kid across the net now, the memories pushed back up, threatening to overwhelm him and sending him into a panicked frenzy. All of his focus was on keeping the memories out and the fear at bay and of course he couldn't play any quality tennis like this. The British qualifier easily served and went to win the next two games as well, making Roger lose the set a 6:4. 

The time in between sets, unfortunately did nothing for him but to give him time to think and that was the last thing he needed right now. On top of the damn flashback the kid had given him when falling and clutching at his back, the memory of last night's nightmare made an unwanted appearance. It was like he was trapped and no matter how hard he tried to pull himself together, he simply couldn't get free from the godawful pictures his own mind tormented him with. 

Desperation threatened to set in when he lost the third set as well. He could have asked for a medical time out but what was he supposed to tell the physio and the doctor? He couldn't very well tell them that he was having a damn, ongoing panic attack. But as it turned out he couldn't battle through it alone either. The fourth set was the last against the young Brit and also his last on this year's Wimbledon tournament. 

By now he was reduced to an emotional mess, glad he managed to even stay out here on court any longer without succumbing to the damn emotions and fear and memories pulling him this way and that. Holding serve became an impossibility, as did doing much of anything else. It took exactly 1 hour and 47 minutes from the end of the first set he had so comfortably won. And then it was over. The young Brit was victorious. And Roger had lost.


	21. Investigative tools

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there everybody. 
> 
> In celebration of Rafa's 33rd Masters title, here's a new chapter for you.  
> Actually had a chance to watch the match and finally managed to be calm through it all.  
> What a nice treat for a Sunday evening. :D
> 
> Anyway - on with the story.  
> Both Rafa and Roger are in this chapter.
> 
> Hope you like it.
> 
> On another note - I have one or two story ideas I could use a co-author on.   
> If any of you would be willing, please let me know.
> 
> <>°O°<>

London

Roger was barely off the court and within the relative safety of the catacombs leading to the locker room, when one of the tournament officials caught up with him. He was very well spoken, very polite but still what he had to tell him only managed to rattle Roger's confidence more and was the last thing he needed right now. Being away from court, away from the British qualifier, away from the loss had made it easier to handle the panic still bubbling under the surface, but he was by no means okay. The request from the tournament official couldn't have come at a worst time.

“Mr. Federer, Sir, there are two inspectors from Scotland Yard here to see you.”

“Inspectors? As in police?”

“Yes.”

“What's all this about?”

“I don't know, Sir. They wouldn't tell me.”

“Where are they?”

“Player's lounge, Sir. We told them to wait.”

“Good. Tell them I'll be another 15 minutes. I need a shower and a change of clothes.”

“Of course, Sir.”

Roger didn't wait for the tournament official to leave and be hospitable to the two policemen but hurried away himself to get to the locker room. He needed to take a long hot shower and hope it would be enough to calm his mind and regain enough composure to talk to the two policemen waiting for him. The only reason he could think of for police wanting to talk to him was the attack on Rafa. He had no idea why it was British police coming to speak to him but it didn't really matter. What mattered was the fact that he would have to retell the events of that day and right now he had no idea how to do that without plunging into another panicked frenzy.

Unlike when he was with his family and had a whole house full of rooms to choose from to hide himself away in, he couldn't run from this conversation. He couldn't very well just leave and ignore the police and once he would be sitting down with them, he could not stop and go away. Once they started asking questions he needed to answer and he was pretty sure they wouldn't understand if he started hyperventilating in the middle of the conversation because his emotions won the better of him. He needed to get this done... but he didn't know how.

A copious amount of hot water and a change of fresh clothes had helped somewhat, but Roger was still very self conscious about what lay ahead of him. When he approached the player's lounge now, he could discern the two police men easily enough. They looked completely out of place and for some strange reason that was helpful to Roger. He felt a little surer about himself and as he approached the small table now at which the two men sat and they both got up to greet him, he felt yet a little better about himself and the conversation ahead of him. Maybe this wouldn't turn out to be so bad after all ...

“Mr. Federer, thank you for your time. I'm Inspector Willkins and my colleague is Inspector Marcus. We are with Scotland Yard but we are here on behalf of the Parisian police. We're sorry to barge in here like this, but they asked us to help out and speak to you.”

“Is this about what happened at Roland Garros?”

“Exactly. Maybe we could sit for a minute?”

They settled down at the table and Roger didn't wait for either of the inspectors to ask any questions. He wanted to make sure they realized that there was little to nothing he could tell them At least nothing that would help them – or more precisely the french police – with their investigation. His sole focus had been on Rafa that afternoon in Paris. He couldn't say much about his surroundings.

“I'm not sure how much help I can be...”

“No need to worry. We just need your statement of the events. It seems you left France without talking to the police...”

“Nobody told me I was required to stay.”

Roger couldn't help the tone of spite in his voice. Th younger officer's words had sounded less like a statement and more like an accusation and he didn't like being put out on the spot like this. Obviously there was a difference in opinion between the two inspectors. The older one of the two inspectors who was clearly the one in charge gave his colleague an exasperated look before focusing his attention back on Roger giving him a short, almost apologetic smile, trying to defuse the situation again.

“Well it was all a little chaotic in the aftermath of the events. It probably slipped their minds. Which is why we are here now. So if you could just give us a recall of the events.”

“I can try but there really isn't much to tell. It was late in the second set when I heard an explosion somewhere in the stands... I looked up and I could see smoke and people hurt and panicking. Rafa – Mr. Nadal – he was already on the ground when I looked across the court. I... I went over to see if he was okay. He was not and I tried to help him until the medics arrived. That's pretty much it.”

He did not tell them about the letter. He probably should have but as he himself still hadn't reached any kind of decision as to how to best handle it, he didn't, he focused on retelling the tale of that Sunday instead. There was only a slight tremble in his voice that betrayed the swirl of emotion threatening to overcome him as he relayed the memories of that Sunday in the shortest version possible without leaving anything out in the process. He needed to fight for calm, needed to keep the pictures of that Sunday afternoon from overwhelming him and needed to control himself to not let his emotions show. If either of the police officers noticed how hard this was for him, they didn't let it show. They kept to the facts and asked the required questions, emotions not playing any role in it. Roger was grateful for that. He could focus solely on those facts this way.

“Did you see the actual attack?”

“No, I... As I said there was some kind of explosion. I was distracted... and when I looked back he was already on his knees...”

“And you saw nobody running away? No indication of anyone trying to escape the court?”

“No.”

“What about before the explosions? Anything out of the ordinary? Anyone acting strange, maybe somebody who seemed nervous or like he didn't belong?”

“No, not that I remember. I was very focused at the time. We all are when we play. Any outside distractions are usually blocked out... I'm sorry I can't be of more help...”

“It's fine. Every little piece of the puzzle is helpful. Thank you for your time, Mr. Federer.”

The conversation was over way quicker than Roger had expected and the two police men were getting up and ready to leave. He mirrored their gesture and suddenly a thought occurred to him. As soon as it entered his mind, it stirred nervousness in him and he could no longer ignore it, no matter how hard he tried. He knew they probably wouldn't answer him and maybe they didn't even know... But he couldn't help it, he needed to know.

“Would you... Can you tell me if... Have they spoken with Rafa... with Mr. Nadal yet?”

“They will today. He was in no condition to be questioned about the events of that Sunday before now.”

#*#*#*#*#

Paris 

After talking to both his mother and his sister for a little while longer and having them explain the plans that had been made for his transfer in detail, Rafa had felt exhausted when the visiting hours had been over and he was left to his own devices. He had dozed off for a little while but hadn't exactly fallen asleep. When the door to his room opened, he blinked his eyes open and found his physician entering, accompanied by two men in street clothes he had never seen before. The presence of strangers made him uncomfortable but Dr. Mallarde hurried to explain their presence.

“Rafael, these two gentlemen are from the Parisian police. They would like to speak with you if you feel up to it?”

“I can try.”

Rafa really would have liked to sit up in bed for this conversation but he knew that with both the pain from the surgical incisions and the numb legs he couldn't do that. Dr. Mallarde seemed to sense his predicament, stepped up and pushed the remote control for the hospital bed into his hands, whispering at him not to exceed an angle of 45 degrees. While Rafa was busy with the controls, the two Frenchmen introduced themselves and explained to him that they had come to talk to him about the events that had lead to his injuries during the French Open final. Before they had a chance to question him about anything, he asked about their progress so far. He was both nervous and curious to find out how far their investigation had progressed. After all it had already been two weeks.

“Do you have any idea who might have done this?”

“We have a couple of leads we are still running down but none of them exactly promising.”

“So you have no idea who did this to me?”

“Not at this moment.”

“Oh…”

It was a disappointing answer and Rafa couldn't help but feel a little downcast at the realization that two whole weeks of investigating had brought up no results. It only fed his already existing fears. If the police hadn't come up with any leads, that meant his attacker was still out there – anonymous and unpunished... Rafa swallowed hard against the uneasy feeling that threatened to settle in his stomach and tried to focus on the questions the two men had for him. 

“We had hoped you might be able to shed some light on the matter though.”

“I'm not sure. My memory is pretty sketchy about that day.”

“Anything you can remember might be of help.”

Rafa tried hard to focus all his energy on treading through the mist that shrouded his memory. As neither of the two police officers asked any additional or specific questions, he assumed he was supposed to tell them his recollection of the event. What was left of his memories wasn't exactly helpful though. It were mostly feelings – of pain, of a bone deep fatigue, of fear... The facts were summed up rather quickly and Rafa was pretty sure none of them would help the police officers in doing their job. 

“There really isn't much... I was focused, serving for the second set I think. There was a loud bang and commotion in the stands but I can't remember what exactly it was... It distracted me... and then there was pain in my back and I couldn't breathe for a moment. I fell... That's all.”

“Anything about the assailant? Anything at all? Every detail is helpful.”

“No… I… it happened behind me and I didn’t see.”

“What about afterwards? Did you see anyone run?”

Rafa had a hard time biting back on the sarcastic laugh that threatened to escape him. Afterwards... Afterwards he had been blinded by pain and too focused on keeping himself from simply dropping to the ground to notice much of anything going on around him. Afterwards was a fuzzy haze of pain and uncertainty. Afterwards was lost to him... But he couldn’t very well tell that to the police. It was not a helpful thing to say.

“No.”

“How about further back? Let's say maybe a month? Had there been any threats prior to the attack? Any strange letters, hang ups on phone calls maybe, somebody lurking around that shouldn’t have been there?”

“I don’t think so…”

“Nobody who watched you?”

“I am always being watched. Whether it’s a match or practice or dinner at a restaurant, there is always people watching. I probably wouldn’t have noticed.”

Obviously these two men were not pleased with his answers and Rafa couldn't blame them. But he had known from the start there was barely anything he could tell them that would be of any help in finding his attacker. Of course he wished for it to be different, wished there was something he could contribute to make sure he would be safe from the deranged stranger in the future... One of the two detectives made a small note and looked as his colleague for confirmation quickly. There seemed to be a silent understanding that they were done asking him about Sunday in particular. There was no insight to be gained from his sketchy recollection of the events. 

“How about any encounter that would have been less subtle?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Have you been in an argument with anyone? Anyone who may have had a reason to feel disgruntled? Somebody from the press, an overeager fan being put in his place, maybe a fellow player?”

“You think somebody on the tour did this?! These are people I spend time with practically every day! People I live with and see more than my actual family…”

“Well, most violent crimes are committed among family members.”

The statement – delivered so matter of factly – managed to stun Rafa into silence. Maybe given the daily horrors that awaited these two men in the job it wasn't surprising, but still Rafa felt it was a very cynical thing to say... The righteous anger he had felt at the question threatened to drain away but not completely. Above all he didn't like the turn this conversation had taken. He started to get the distinct feeling it would have been better to tell Dr. Mallarde he didn't feel up for any additional visitors... Rafa tried to keep his voice even and his emotions in check but it didn't exactly work out that way. 

“What are you meaning to say? Are you going to ask me if somebody from my family might be responsible next?!”

“Could they?”

“No!”

His reaction was quick, loud and all emotion. Unfortunately it also turned out to be painful. Straining his muscles as he reacted to the blatant accusation on his own family having something to do with this, he involuntarily tensed up. It caused a wave of pain to flare up in his back and stomach. The detectives either didn't notice or didn't care, but his doctor sure did. Next to him Dr. Mallarde had turned from pale to a very easily detectable red and his strained voice was almost trembling with barely controlled anger. 

“Gentlemen, this is a hospital, not an interrogation room and you are not talking to a suspect but a victim. I would appreciate it if you acknowledged that and the still very fragile physical state my patient is in. I think it’s time for you to leave.”

A moment of uncomfortable silence passed by before the two detectives reacted. They didn't exactly look pleased, but it seemed they had no interest in risking an argument with the ICU doctor. Not really having gained much from this conversation they said their goodbyes in curt tones and were gone the next minute. Rafa however felt he would be reeling from this a little longer... It didn't matter if they had meant it or not, but he was upset and calming himself down took considerable effort. Still standing next to him Dr. Mallarde gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze, followed by a genuinely concerned look.

“I'm sorry about this. Had I known they would be this blunt and confrontational, I wouldn't have allowed them in here... Are you alright?”

“I will be... Just please tell me I don't have to talk to them again...”

“Not if I can help it.”


	22. Along the road

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI everybody. Just a quick update as RL is a bit demanding right now and I don't have a lot of time.  
> To those of you who reviewed, I haven't forgotten about you and I will try to get back to answering by the weekend.  
> Hopefully things will be a little less hectic by Sunday...
> 
> Storywise we have both Rafa and Roger in this chapter.  
> Change in POV as always indicated by '#*#*#*#*#'  
> No warnings, only very little medical stuff...
> 
> Hope you like it :)
> 
> <>°O°<>

*6 days later*

Switzerland 

He had hoped being back home would give him the calmness and peace of mind he needed to not only get over the devastating loss at Wimbledon and that conversation with Scotland Yard on behalf of French police he hadn't told anybody about but also to get his own mindset back under control. That onslaught of a panic attack he had during the match had been scary to say the least and he never wanted to experience something like this again. Not if he could help it. Unfortunately providence and his own damn jumbled head had other plans for him.

It had all started out well though. Upon his return to their rented place, his wife had been home, had packed and had told him she was sorry for leaving him like this, not being there for him during the match and making him fend for himself. She had felt truly guilty for her behavior and that had gained him a couple of extra points with her upon their return home. She had been friendlier with him ever since, more understanding, more patient. She had let a lot of his antics just slide and had not said anything when he had yet another nightmare on their first night back home. She had just been there, had offered him a shoulder to cry on, had whispered soothing words at him and this one time he had actually been able to go back to sleep afterwards and had slept until the morning.

The nightmares hadn't subsided though. They varied but in the end it was always Rafa, bleeding on the ground, blaming him for what had happened and questioning him why he hadn't helped, hadn't stopped the misery and pain. At least the flashbacks and panic attacks hadn't returned... not right away anyway. Three days into their return however, Leo had fallen outside and had scraped his knee. Their had been little blood and a lot of tears and once Mirka had put a bright shiny band aid on it, the little guy had been okay again. The same however could not be said for his father.

Just like in London that little, rather innocent scene he had witnessed had morphed into something else and only removing himself from it – effectively leaving his injured little boy alone in the process – and a whole lot of freezingly cold water that he had frantically thrown at his face in the bathroom had helped to quell the panic attack this time. Leo had been disappointed in him, Mirka had been furious and Roger felt on the brink of losing his last remnants of composure. He had no idea how to handle these godawful tricks his mind played on him. None whatsoever. The one thing he felt very strongly about however was that he sort of deserved them. It was only fair... Rafa had to deal with the physical agony... and he had the mental trauma to deal with. 

He had tried hard to hide himself away from his family since that little episode and to his relief – and disappointment at the same time, but that was his addled brain and confused feelings at the moment – they had let him be. He had been a little better, but that had been crushed by a news article he had stumbled across more by chance than by actually looking for it this morning. He had sat at the breakfast table, laptop in front of him and had almost choked on his coffee. 

It was a short notice from a Spanish newspaper that had been picked up by other agencies, relaying the news that Rafa had been transferred from Paris to a private clinic in Barcelona. There had been a picture as well, taken from a distance, showing Rafa in a wheelchair... It was hard to make out much of any detail due to the distance but he had looked pale and so much thinner in that picture. Younger too and vulnerable... It just didn't sit right with Roger that any news agency would opt for publishing it. It was a massive invasion of privacy after all and it was just plain and simply wrong.  
He hadn't even realized he was mumbling barely audible profanities under his breath until there was a hand on his shoulder and Mirka was talking to him.

“If you continue on like this any longer, I will have to send you to wash your mouth. What are you so upset about...”

“It's this piece of garbage!”

Roger turned the laptop to give his wife a chance to study both the little article and the picture taken of Rafa. Her face betrayed no emotion as she read and when she had finished and simply shrugged in response he gave her an exasperated stare. He couldn't believe she didn't understand what he was so worked up about but he was more than willing to explain his irritation. 

“How can they publish something like this?! Hasn't he been through enough?! Do they really need to invade his privacy like this? In such a moment? They're like vultures picking at a corpse!”

Roger had to wince at the imagery his own words provided. It had been a bad choice of words and it caused a cold hard knot to form in his stomach. Unfortunately it wasn't the only reaction it provoked. His own damn thoughts were running amok and providing him with a picture to accompany the visual of what he had just said. His mind took him back to Paris again with Rafa on the ground unconscious, blood dripping from the saturated towel onto the ground, an EMT shouting alarming rates of pulse and blood pressure at his colleague and all the while the Spaniard just lay there unmoving.

Blood was rushing in his ears, blocking out all other sounds. He felt queasy, his vision tunneling, and didn't even realize that he leaned forward, panting so hard like he had just run a mile in a minute and blindly grabbed for the edge of the kitchen table for support. He didn't notice at first but finally Mirka's voice filtered through the haze.

“Roger! Take a deep breath, come on! It's going to be okay. Just breathe. In and out. That's it.”

He closed his eyes, concentrated fully on her voice and did exactly as she asked of him. Keeping his entire focus on his breathing helped. He followed her voice that still instructed him to breathe and helped him establish a steady rhythm. Long breath in, longer breath out, repeat. Finally the dizziness subsided and along with it the memory went away. He opened his eyes again and found himself face to face with Mirka. Concern was flooding her face.

“Are you okay?”

“No.”

“Do you want to talk?”

“No.”

“Okay...”

Mirka had not been happy with his decision to not include her in what had happened to him, but as he himself had a hard time explaining it, he really didn't know how to talk to her about it. She had retreated, had left him be but had never once stopped keeping a watchful eye on him. Somehow that had made matters worse that same night. Her scrutiny, the article and his own inability to keep it together at the imagery his mind had come up with at his unfortunate choice of words, caused yet another sleepless night for him. It hadn't even been a nightmare exactly. It had been more like a memory that had intertwined with what he had read in that awful news article today. 

This time he had not dreamed of Paris or any other tournament for that matter. This time he was at the hospital in Paris and Rafa had been in that damn wheelchair telling him that he would never be able to walk again and it was all Roger's fault. That he had crippled him, had ruined his life and had taken any chance to go back to normal away from him – all on purpose.

“Weren't it for you I would still be able to walk. My life would be normal. You ruined everything for me.”

He woke to that disembodied voice - free of any accent - that the version of Rafa in his dreams always spoke with. It wasn't like usual, not a breathless sudden wakefulness drenched in cold sweat which meant that for once he didn't wake up his wife. He felt hollow and disillusioned instead. Cursing under his breath, he struggled free from the sheets he had entangled himself in. Sleep wouldn't come again tonight – he just knew it.. 

#*#*#*#*#

Barcelona 

It had taken two additional days before everything between the hospital in Paris and the clinic in Barcelona had been arranged and they had found an acceptable mode of transportation. It had been an airlift and Rafa had slept through most of it, both Dr. Mallarde and Dr. Cotorro deeming it best not to put any additional strain on his still weakened body. Nobody had asked his opinion or his permission and they hadn't exactly told him what their plan was until afterwards though.

On the day of his departure Dr. Mallarde had been in to see him, had told him they were ready to get him underway and had wished him all the best on his way of recovery before saying his goodbyes. Soon after that a nurse had appeared. She had smiled at him, and then she had explained something in French he hadn't been quite able to understand. A syringe had been in her hand – seemingly out of nowhere – and before he even had the chance to protest, she had emptied the contents inside the plunger into one of the free IV lines on the central IV in his neck. Warmth had spread through his chest right after that and all of a sudden he had felt very very tired... and that was the last thing he remembered of Paris.

When he woke up again the room he was in still definitely belonged to a hospital but this one was not in Paris any more. A couple of other things had changed too. He was off most of the medication except for the antibiotics and the thrombosis inhibitors as part of his post surgery regimen. That left only one IV in the crook of his arm that had been already been newly placed there. All the restraining equipment to monitor his vital signs had gone and the godawful central IV in the vein of his neck was gone too. 

Pain medication was supposed to be given to him according to his needs, Dr. Mallarde had told him as much before saying goodbye to him... It was probably the reason the doctors had decided on a single IV instead of the dreaded central line. He wasn't in any pain when he woke up anyway. Just drowsy and uncomfortable and quite frankly a bit pissed off at the fact they had simply knocked him out for the transfer... 

A whole battery of medical professionals had filtered into his room about half an hour after he had woken up. There was Cotorro and a couple of other specialists qualified to deal with the specific aspects of his injuries and of course a physical therapist who would help him keep up strength in his still useless legs... The trusted physician was the one to address him though and Rafa simply couldn't help the snide response at the doctor's question.

“Rafa, it's good to see you awake. How are you feeling?”

“Like somebody knocked me out with a sedative.”

“Yes. Sorry about that. We felt it was the best course of action for the transfer to minimize any additional stress.”

“You could have asked.”

“Would you have agreed?”

“No.”

The long trusted doctor gave him a look that was all too easy to read. It was the equivalent to a vocal 'I told you so'. He had long since learned the hard way that just because it was his body, that didn't mean he always knew what was best for it. That was probably why his parents had gotten him transferred in the first place. Here he was around people he not only trusted but who knew how to best handle him when stubbornness won the better of him. He had repeatedly been told the road to recovery would be a long at times frustrating one and though it was not the first time he had heard those words in his life, this was different. This wasn't some injury due to fatigue or overuse. This had been a vicious attack on his life and coming back from that would be different to any recovery process he had before. He was glad for the help along the way even if he wasn't exactly showing his appreciation right at this moment.

The very next day feeling had started to return to his legs. It felt almost like his body had just waited for him to leave foreign soil and had practically jumped at the chance of having him put his own two feet on the ground of his home country. He had actually woken up from it and at first he had been very confused until he realized that the excessive tingling in his legs meant that the swelling was finally going down and feeling had returned to his extremities. 

He had been elated at first when it had happened because there had finally been some feeling returning to his legs and when he dug his nails into his thighs that morning he had actually felt it. But the exhilaration had been replaced by annoyance rather quickly because the sensation simply didn't progress from there on out and he still couldn't move his legs. He managed wriggling his toes and of course he had physical therapy despite the lack of sensation, but his legs simply refused to cooperate with any command given to them. Apart from that, the tingling sensation had turned into a constant, making him feel like his legs had permanently fallen asleep on him and with every day that passed by like this, it became more and more unbearable.

He had finally resorted to asking for some sort of drug treatment that allowed him to sleep through the night. The doctors had been happy to help as they had made it abundantly clear that rest was the best help and remedy his own body needed to speed up the recovery process. Rafa however had hated taking those pills. It felt like a set back and he couldn't help but feel disgusted with himself for needing them. He had been under the influence of heavy duty narcotics and sedatives for so long and still in need of the damn pain medication that it felt like a defeat needing the help of medication to fall asleep at night...

He was desperate for a different approach and when his doctor came for his round this morning, he had been unable to hide back his frustration any longer. He had been asked to be patient repeatedly but this couldn't be the extent of what the clinic and it's doctors could do for him. They couldn't just leave him here like this and simply hope for the problem to resolve itself while that damn tingling seemed to be a permanent fixture in his legs. To his own surprise, the doctor had not only been understanding and emphatic but had offered a solution as well. 

“How are you feeling today?”

“Frustrated mainly. There's no change. I still can't move my legs, I still feel like there's a hoard of ants running up and down my legs... Isn't there anything you can do to speed this up? This tingling is driving me crazy...”

“What we could do is place an epidural catheter between the vertebrae of the lower back and introduce medication to help bring down the swelling right where it's needed.”

“If it helps to return feelings to my legs and get me back on my feet any faster, I will do it.”

Rafa watched the physician's features closely as he answered. He had seen enough doctors over the course of his life as a professional athlete to know there was almost always some catch. No procedure performed was ever without risks and given the fact that it wasn't exactly necessary for something to be done to speed up the progression of the swelling going down but was rather something he wanted, he was sure there was a 'but' to come. He turned out to be only half right – there was a catch but – at least in Rafa's eyes – it wasn't a serious one. 

“The epidural isn't exactly a pleasant medical procedure though...”

“You sound like I never had an unpleasant medical procedure ever before in my life. Don't worry about me. I can handle this.”

“Alright. If that's what you want, I'll set it up for this afternoon.”


	23. Worth the trouble

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No Roger in this chapter.  
> Purely medical procedure, which might seem like pointless hurt with no comfort to it,  
> but this one is sort of autobiographic.
> 
> The adverse effects described are not common according to my research,  
> but this is what happened to me and I can tell you it was an awful experience.  
> This is my way of sharing it.
> 
> Probably sounds a little grim but I still hope you like it
> 
> <>°O°<>

The morning had dragged along or at least that was what it felt like to Rafa. It wasn’t exactly surprising. Now that there was a treatment option so close by, waiting for it to finally take place seemed to take longer than anything else he had ever waited on. His family had been in to visit but when the doctor finally arrived, they were asked to leave for the duration of the procedure. Rafa didn’t like the fact that having this done was obviously something his family didn’t need to witness and the very first thing the anesthesiologist had to say to him after his parents and his uncle had been ushered from the room was not exactly promising either.

“I'm afraid this is going to be a little tricky...”

“Why is that?”

“Because we can't do this with you lying down. We might risk missing the right spot and that means we would have to try again and as you have already been told, it's not exactly a pleasant experience. So I need you to sit up at the edge of the bed, lean forward and curve your back so that the spine will be aligned in the right way for the placement of the catheter.”

All Rafa managed as an immediate response was to stare at the doctor. Nobody had told him any details of the procedure but right now it sounded pretty much impossible to achieve. He couldn’t do any of the things the doctor wanted him to. Not with a pair of tingly legs that were pretty much useless for anything else but to frustrate him at the moment. He couldn’t keep a certain amount of snide from his tone when he responded.

“How? I still can't move.”

“We'll help you with that and as I’m aware that balance is a problem, I would ask a second nurse in to help support you, if you don’t mind.”

Rafa just looked at the anesthesiologist unable to nod in acknowledgment. He knew it wasn't exactly a big deal and staff and doctors around here were trained for this kind of thing, but he didn’t like the idea of too many strangers around while the doctor was sticking a needle into his back… It was a painful procedure that he would not be able to see happening and would be forced to endure. Even though his memory of it still was only a hazy one, it simply felt too much like what the stabbing must have been like and he couldn't go through that in the presence of strangers. He needed the support of somebody he trusted, somebody he knew would protect him if need be … Fortunately the doctor picked up on his discomfort and uncertainty.

“You seem troubled.”

“I really would like a family member to do this if you don't mind. Would that be okay? Please?”

For a dreadfully long moment the doctor just looked at him, puzzled at the request and Rafa's heart sank at the expectation of being turned down. It didn't happen though. The doctor finally nodded and not for the first time since arriving in Barcelona, Rafa was glad his parents and his uncle had stayed with him instead of going back home to Mallorca and waiting for him to return. Maribel had gone back as she had work that she could no longer stay away from and Carlos and the rest of his team were back with their own families. But his parents and uncle were here with him and he knew he could trust in them to help and support him.

“Yes, of course. There's no medical knowledge necessary. They just have to help support your weight while you lean forward. But as I said it's not a comfortable procedure. Are you sure you want one of them here?”

It was a very difficult question to ponder. Even as they had repeatedly told him that they were glad and happy that he was better and that they were proud of him for fighting his way back to them so vehemently, Rafa still couldn't help the feeling that he had hurt them. It had been out of his hands he knew that but that didn't erase the feeling that he had put his family through something awful in that eleven days he had been unconscious. Which was what made it so hard to decide to have one of them with him through this.

The last thing he wanted was for any of them to go through the pain of seeing him suffer yet again. But he was also afraid as he had repeatedly been told now that the procedure was 'unpleasant'. From his own personal experience he knew perfectly well that when a doctor said 'unpleasant' he actually meant painful and he simply didn't find the strength within him to go through that alone.

“Yes. I... I can't decide this for them though. Just ask them if they are willing to. Please?”

The doctor gave a quick nod to the nurse that was supposed to assist him in the procedure and she disappeared from the room. If there was any decision making process among his family members, it didn't take long. A couple of minutes later the nurse returned with his uncle. Rafa was glad for the decision. Both his parents surely would gladly have supported him through this, but he was sure it would have been painful for them to watch. Not that it was different with his uncle, but he was sure Toni would be able to handle this better than either Rafa's father or mother could. The doctor gave Toni a quick retelling of what they were about to do and then continued his explanation.

“We'll numb the area surrounding the spot where the catheter is placed first and then we'll insert the needle. I take it you don't want to see it before.”

“No. No need.”

“Now the needle is pretty long...”

“I really didn't need to know that.”

“I just want you to be prepared. Placing the needle can take a couple of minutes, depending on the resistance we're forced to push through. You will most definitely feel a lot of pressure and possibly some pain before the needle fully passes through the tissue and into the epidural space. Once the catheter is placed you can lie back down and we can start the first round of anti-inflammatories. Do you have any questions?”

“No.”

The doctor gave him a quick smile in response and with that the explanatory part of the procedure was over. The nurse and the doctor helped him to maneuver himself to the edge of the bed which given his unresponsive legs was a monumental task already. Pushing himself up and over had been manageable, but he needed the help of the nurse to get his legs off the bed and onto the ground. His feet were actually resting on the ground when they were done, but as the enervating tingling in his legs made it impossible to actually feel the ground beneath him, he had a strong sensation of falling. 

It was humiliating to be treated like a damn human rag doll. He was already sweaty and out of breath by the time he had been manhandled to the edge of the bed and that scared him a lot. Endurance had always been his strong suit, but it seemed there was barely any of it left now. Having the doctor tell him he needed to scoot closer to the edge AND lean forward was even worse. He was barely able to keep any balance as it was.

His uncle was there to help and pick up the slack, holding him by the shoulders with two strong warm hands. The doctor had opened and parted the hospital issued gown they had made him wear for the procedure and Rafa could feel a waft of cool air hitting his back. He was sure there were goosebumps forming, but obviously that was no problem because the doctor continued right on. While he was talking, Rafa could already feel that he was proceeding with his ministrations. This far, things were pretty easy on him... 

“I’m injecting the Novocaine now. There will be a prick and you might feel a burning sensation but it should subside quickly.”

“That wasn’t so bad…”

“Good. Now I need you to lean forward a little more and curve your back. It's best if you rest your chin on your chest and just let your uncle bear your weight.“

It was a monumental question of trust, but of course Rafa had no doubt his uncle would hold his weight as he did as was expected of him, let his head drop first and allowed the rest of his body to follow, relying solely on his uncle for support and balance. He felt exposed. He could feel the warmth of his uncle radiating of off him and that gave him a tiny bit of comfort. It all went away the moment the doctor started pushing the catheter into his skin though. 

It was a curious feeling at first. But it didn't stay like that and as the doctor carefully pushed the needle of the catheter further in, there was nothing remotely interesting about that feeling in his lower back any more. The pressure quickly became unbearable and turned into a dull but unrelenting pain. Rafa gave a soft grunt of discomfort. The doctor hadn't been kidding when he had told him there would be a buildup of pressure once the procedure was underway. The doctor's voice close to him was soothing but confident.

“It's okay. Just relax. Try to breathe through it.”

It got worse from there on. The pain was getting sharper and still the pressure was building up in his back, making him feel like something either had to give way or explode... Instinct told him to either push back or squirm away, but he could do neither of those things. With the doctor behind him and his uncle in front of him he was lodged firmly in place, trapped. He tried to hold his breath to not let another sound of pain escape but that didn't help either. Sweat was pouring down his exposed back and every instinct screamed at him to sit back up and do something, anything to make the pain go away. Against a haze of fear, the doctor’s voice filtered through, both urgency and sympathy radiating from it.

“Rafa, I need you to relax. The more you tense up, the more difficult it is for me to put the catheter in place.”

He wanted to yell, wanted to tell the damn doctor that he couldn't help his reaction, that what they were doing to him was painful beyond what he had imagined and that he had no control over the way his body reacted to it. He tried to sit up a little straighter, tried to push himself to turn around and look but he barely managed so much as to get his chin off his chest. His vision swam and he could feel the last remnants of strength fading away. His voice was a quiet mumble that was almost swallowed by the fact he was heavily leaning into his uncle now.

“I feel dizzy...”

“It'll fade as soon as you lie back down. Just another minute, okay? Try to take deep breaths. Are you feeling sick?”

He couldn’t answer the question because even while he was talking to him, trying to find out how he was handling this, the damn doctor kept on pushing, kept on hurting him. Rafa's voice caught in his throat and his breathing turned more shallow as he tried to push through the damn pain but only managed to increase the dizziness he felt that way. There was the rushing of blood in his ears now, but his uncle's voice - stern but full of sympathy - still filtered through.

“Rafael! Are you feeling sick?!”

“I... I don't know...”

“We can stop...”

It was such a tempting offer from the doctor and Rafa's instincts seemed to scream at him to just give in and say yes. His mind and will however said something else because he knew if he wanted to speed up the process of recovering feeling in his legs, he needed to do this. He also knew he would not come up with the willpower to go through all this a second time if they stopped now and with that there was only one answer left.

“No.”

The doctor was kind enough to acknowledge just how much will and strength it took to allow him to continue that he paused briefly, giving Rafa a moment to get his bearings again. Unfortunately the moment didn't last, the unbearable pressure and the dull stabbing pain resumed and this time Rafa couldn't hide back another low growl of pain. And then – all of a sudden - it was over. The pressure was gone without a warning, the pain receded and the doctor declared the procedure successful. 

“Alright, we're done.”

And the doctor helped him to lie down on his side, pushing his still useless, tingly legs back onto the bed. Slowly but gradually both a normal breathing rhythm and his composure returned to Rafa. For just a second he felt unbelievably embarrassed at having almost lost it. He had been so close on calling a quit on the procedure and now that he had been allowed to lie down and that awful, unrelenting pain had subsided and only the dizziness remained, he didn't very well know why... 

“That's it. All done. You did fine.”

“Please tell me you don't have to do this again...”

“No. The catheter is in place and will stay there until we finished the anti-inflammatory treatment. Are you feeling okay?”

“Not yet.”

There was a sympathetic smile on the doctor's face that Rafa didn't see because he had closed his eyes, allowing himself to shut everything out for just a moment to regain his calm. Lying there like this with eyes closed and sweat still prominently on his forehead, the doctor was obviously worried about him. 

“That's understandable. Just relax and focus on your breathing. You're looking a little pale there... I'll get the nurse to get you some water.”

Rafa could hear footsteps – probably the nurse getting him that water – and felt a barely noticeable tugging in his back. He didn't dare to open his eyes just yet and he certainly didn't want to look. He could only assume it was the doctor hooking the catheter up to an IV bag full of the necessary anti- inflammatory medication to help clear up the swelling around his spine. Finally Rafa felt composed enough to open his eyes again. When he did his uncle's features swam into focus. The expression on his face somber. 

“That was… unpleasant.”

“It’s not like they didn’t warn me.”

“How are you now? Any better?”

“Yes, I think so. Exhausted but… it doesn’t hurt any more. How can it not hurt now when it hurt that much before?”

The last part of the question had been meant for the doctor, who had returned to his bedside and held out that promised cup of water for him to drink. Carefully sucking on the straw placed in the cup, Rafa was actually glad for the cool clear liquid hitting his throat. The doctor sounded a little less stressed and a lot more content now, probably happy for a job well done... 

“It’s no different from placing any other needle. Once it’s where it’s supposed to go, it’s fine.”

That made sense to Rafa. The other IV’s, especially the one to the back of the hand, hadn’t been exactly pleasant to get either. But once in place the needle itself hadn’t bothered him only the restricted feeling of the tangling IV lines. What made no sense to him was the enormity of discomfort he had felt. He certainly was no stranger to pain, but this had been truly unpleasant – just as predicted by the doctor. Somehow he had a hard time believing it was just him being overly sensitive to the matter.

“Is this normal? The pain?”

“It depends on the patient, the way the vertebrae are aligned. The less space there is in between, the more resistance there is for us to push through. That’s what makes it more painful.”

Carefully leveling himself onto one arm, all the way mindful not to make any quick or straining movements in order not to jar his surgical incisions, Rafa maneuvered himself into a half seated position on his side that left him almost at eye level with the anesthesiologist. He couldn't help how depressed and defeated he sounded at his own realization. The doctor however gave him a soft smile and a reassuring answer.

“So it’s me…”

“It’s not that unusual. No need to dwell on it.”


	24. Better with time

Switzerland

Ever since that panic attack his wife had been watching and actually had helped to get him through, the strain that had slipped into their relationship had dulled down somewhat. Roger still felt embarrassed Mirka had to witness what had happened to him and it seemed she was both worried and preoccupied. It hadn't exactly made their interactions any more normal but yet again they were at a point they both comfortably ignored the underlying problem. 

Of course it couldn't last forever. The kids were at school and kindergarden respectively which left him and Mirka alone at the house. He had heard the home phone ring of course but he elected to ignore it. With everything that had happened since Wimbledon he really wasn't up to any conversations that weren't absolutely necessary. Had he known who the caller was, he would have reacted differently. But now it was too late and it was his wife – practically storming into the kitchen, anger written all over her face – that told him who had called in a cool, reproachful tone of voice

“I had a very strange phone call just now…”

“From whom?”

“Inspector Steven Wilkins, Scotland Yard. He had a follow up question… Why would an inspector of Scotland Yard have a follow up question for you?”

The question was a loaded one and Roger hid back a sigh The truce – and he simply didn’t know how else to put it – between them after his latest plunge into panic was still a fragile one and he didn’t want to risk it. But he didn’t appreciate her tone of voice either. Of course he could have told her, maybe even should have but it was not like something of utmost importance had happened in that conversation with the police. It had just been due diligence. He shrugged in response, avoiding eye contact with his wife.

“They came to talk to me at Wimbledon on behalf of French police, asking about Paris… It wasn’t a big deal.”

“And you chose not to tell me this because…?”

“As I said, it wasn’t a big deal. They had a couple of questions, I answered them, end of story.”

“You lied to me…”

The accusation hung in the air between them like a toxic cloud. Mirka was visibly angry, facial expression tight, lips drawn into a thin line and her arms crossed. Everything about her radiated righteous anger. Roger however had no sympathy for the sentiment. She was overreacting to this whole thing in his book, being way too dramatic and unfair to him. He couldn’t believe she actually felt in the right here and didn’t realize she was being ridiculous. Once again he shrugged, keeping all traces of emotion from his voice.

“I didn’t lie. I simply decided not to relay an unimportant piece of information. There’s no need for you to know about every last step I take and every last person I talk to.”

“There is if they call here unannounced and blindside me!”

“I didn’t know they would call. If it’s inconvenient for you, I’m sorry.”

There was no honesty to his apology and instead of feeling angry and frustrated like so many times before, Mirka felt defeated. He was talking to her like she was some business associate, some stranger he barely knew and felt no trust for in any way. It hurt being treated like this, even if she had to admit she wasn’t entirely without blame for the recent development their marriage had taken. She shook her head, her voice low and saddened.

“This can’t go on.”

“Excuse me?”

“You… being like this… I know I wasn’t exactly supportive after our argument on the first day of Wimbledon. I know it cost you and I know you’re probably angry with me, but please – please – stop shutting me out like this.”

Her plea did what all the reasonable words in the world never would have achieved otherwise. The last thing he ever wanted was to hurt her, which was why he refused to let her in and talk to her about what was troubling him in the first place. This was his problem, his pain to deal with, his guilt that he had to carry and he didn’t want to put any of that on her. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust her. It was simply to protect her.

“I’m not! I just… I don’t want to talk about this…”

“Why not?”

“Because talking about it doesn’t help. It only makes it worse.”

“I refuse to believe that.”

It was so easy for her to say, so easy to demand he simply change his mind, his whole attitude and do as she wanted him to. He couldn’t though. Even the thought of Paris, of Rafa, of that godawful letter that could have changed it all if only he had reacted to it earlier, send his mind into overdrive and his stomach in knots. And his wife simply claimed he was wrong to act on those feelings the way he did… He couldn’t help the anger bubbling up, guiding his thoughts and making him say more than he had ever intended to reveal to her.

“The last time I was reminded of it I had a damn panic attack!”

“And you don’t think that is cause for concern?! That maybe you need some help?!”

“Help from whom?”

“From me for example! From your family.”

“You can’t change what happened.”

She gave an exasperated huff that made no sense to Roger. Judging from the expression on her face he had obviously said something stupid. It was a simple truth though. Nothing Mirka could say to him would ever change what had happened in Paris. It turned out they were at a blatant difference of opinion yet again because to her this had never been about changing anything. It was about helping... 

“This is not about changing what happened! It’s about finding a way for you to deal with this! One where you don’t end up plagued by nightmares or panic attacks almost every day. One where you can eat and sleep and be happy with what you do. One where you don’t look like death warmed over! This has to stop!”

“I don’t know how…”

“See a therapist then. Somebody qualified to help.”

Roger glared at her for the ridiculous suggestion. The last thing he wanted or needed was some overqualified charlatan forcing him to talk about his feelings. He knew what was wrong with him, he knew what was the cause of it and he was sure this would get better over time. Paris had been a little over a month ago and not a lot of good things had happened to him since then. Maybe Mirka saw things differently but to Roger there was nothing unusual about his reaction. He just needed a little longer to return to normal, that was all... 

“I don’t need help. What happened that day was awful and you can’t expect me to just get over it! I have to work through this and if nightmares and bad moods are a part of it then so be it. Stop trying to push things on me I don’t want.”

“How about what I want? What your kids want? We need you!”

“I’m still me and I’m right here…”

She shook her head at him, sadness dulling the brightness of her eyes. He had meant what he had said, actually felt that way but it seemed he was the only one to actually believe that his behavior towards his wife and children hadn't suffered. She sounded so damn defeated it was painful to listen to her. But her sadness quickly turned into anger and determination again as she continued.

“No you’re not. Neither one of those things. You’re different and maybe you can fool yourself but I see right through you. You’re punishing yourself for something you could neither control nor have any fault for. Let me make this very clear to you once and for all. What happened to Rafa wasn't your fault. What happened with that awful letter was just bad luck and bad timing. You're not to blame, you're not to be punished. You have to get over this!”

Yet again it sounded so easy the way she said it. But it really wasn't and she couldn't have been more wrong in her assessment. Of course he was at fault. He could have relented or lied but he didn't want to do either of those things. The only other option he could think of was to play for time and to his relief Mirka seemed willing to play along for the time being.

“Just give me time, damn it. It’ll all be better with time.”


	25. Not as planned

*6 days later*

Barcelona

It had happened all of a sudden. One evening Rafa had fallen asleep – helped along by the proper medication – with his legs still tingling and the next morning that tingling had gone and he had finally been able to feel his legs again fully. He had poked and prodded at them, had been staring at his toes wriggling, had tried to shift in bed and had finally felt the familiar pressure and resistance he was supposed to feel as his legs pressed against the mattress. 

A nurse had been in around eight to bring him breakfast and had hurried off to tell his doctors of the development. They were here now, making sure everything was progressing as it should. Rafa knew he was grinning like an idiot while Dr. Cotorro was checking on his legs but he couldn't help it. For the first time in more than a month he felt like some semblance of normality had returned to his life. His grin widened, spreading across his face, lighting it up when the doctor announced his findings. 

“Sensation is normal, reflexes are normal... We will do another MRI just to be sure but from what I see here, everything is back to normal.”

“Does this mean I can get up?

“I would advice to wait until after the MRI to confirm my findings but after that you are welcome to try. But take it slowly, Rafael. You haven't been out of bed for over a month... You will need time to get your strength back.”

Rafa nodded vigorously, only half listening to the doctors words. His legs were finally his again, finally doing what they were supposed to do. It had been the last piece of an ever growing puzzle. The last of the IV had been taken out four days ago, he was off medication and on solid food again. The surgical incisions still felt ginger but they didn't hurt any more and from the results of his blood tests and the way he felt about it as well, he knew the lone kidney was working just fine. The only two pieces of medical equipment still attached were the epidural and the damn urinary catheter. He couldn't wait to get rid of both of those, no longer needing either one now that his legs were finally cooperating again.

“When can I go home?”

“In a week or two.”

The answer surprised Rafa and his focus shifted back on the doctor instead of what the near future was holding for him. He knew the doctors needed to do additional tests to make sure he was definitely alright and nothing was amiss but now that the anti inflammatory treatment had worked and his legs were back to normal, Rafa had expected to be allowed to go home within the next couple of days. After all there was no further health problem and he was feeling fine – or at least as fine as he could feel given the circumstances. He gave the doctor a critical look.

“That long?”

“Yes.”

“But why?!”

He knew he probably sounded like a spoiled little brat but he really felt this was a dedicated doctor being way to careful and timid, wanting to make sure his illustrious patient was one hundred percent alright before sending him off back into his normal every day life. Rafa believed the doctor didn't want to risk any kind of repercussions if Rafa experienced any problems Instead of a verbal explanation though, the doctor instructed him to follow through on a little exercise. 

“Try to sit up on the edge of the bed and put your feet on the ground. Do NOT stand up. Do you understand?”

Rafa was enthusiastic at the prospect of following through on the doctor's orders. He focused on the way his muscles worked, focused on the feeling of strain in them and manged to push himself to the side of the bed. His next task now was to keep enough tension in his muscle to move them over the edge of the bed and onto the ground. He tried. Nothing happened. He tried again more forcefully, more determined this time but it changed nothing. His legs wouldn't move. 

His stupid legs simply weren't cooperating. It was like nothing had changed at all. The tingling was gone but moving – apart from his toes – was still pretty much an impossibility. He sat there, already a little out of breath again, staring at the useless appendages before looking up to refocus his staring at the doctor, utter disbelief written all over his face. The physician gave him a sad smile.  
   
“That's why.”  
   
“But I have been working with the physio...”  
   
“It's not the same. What he does is to help preserve flexibility and muscle strength. Actually using your legs to support your body weight is a whole different thing. As I said, you have gone more than a month without leaving the bed. I assume you still remember what it felt like getting out of bed after those two and a half days on bed rest and antibiotics in Shanghai five years back?”  
   
At first Rafa wasn't sure what the doctor was getting at. The memory of Shanghai and the ensuing appendicitis that had left him at this very same hospital to have surgery a couple of weeks later, was not exactly a favorable one. There had been a lot of pain and exhaustion on that terrible weekend and thinking back to it was not something Rafa did a lot. Trying to focus on the question at hand however, it wasn't too hard to come up with an answer.

“It was hard...”  
   
“Now that were only two days. Now we're talking about 28 days... So multiply how difficult it was for you on that Tuesday morning five years back by about 15 times and you're close to how hard it will be this time... As I said – you need to be patient. Pushing yourself too hard will only set you back.”  
   
It was a terrible, terrible statement and a frustrating one as well. If the doctor was right in his assessment I would almost be impossible to get back up on his feet any time soon. It had taken strength and willpower and effort back then in Shanghai – a lot of it... How was he supposed to multiply that by more than ten times? It seemed truly impossible... and he couldn't help the desperation he felt at that.

“I thought I was better...”

“You are. The treatment worked, the swelling is down, your legs are fine now. You just need more time.”

The doctor wasn't wrong. Time would certainly help, time and a rigorous regimen of physical therapy. It would be hard and maybe even painful but it would not take him 15 times as long as back in Shanghai. Rafa was simply unwilling to allow that to happen. He knew exactly what he had to do - he needed to find a way to speed things up just like with the epidural treatment.. It had worked then, it would work now and he was determined to do just that. He would not give up, not after everything he had been through... 

#*#*#*#*#

Switzerland

Amazingly enough Mirka had let him be and it had made matters a lot easier for Roger. It had even helped with the nightmares. Or maybe that had been due to the fact that he had finally allowed the physical distance between him and both London and Paris to soothe and calm him. No matter what it was, he felt better. Not a lot but well enough to act normal enough around his wife and kids for them not to be concerned. Or at least that was what he hoped for.

As part of that normal routine he had been so determined to get back to, he had dropped the girls off to school today and when he returned his wife was outside on the patio with a cup of tea and a book. She dropped the book into her lap as he approached to sit down next to her and pulled a folded white sheet of paper he had seen sitting there from the front pages where it had been stuck. Her facial expression had that unreadable look again that he had learned to fear over the course of the last month and a half... 

“You have been officially invited to see an ATP mandated therapist.”  
   
“What was that?”  
   
“The player’s council decided to make it mandatory for those directly affected by what happened in Paris. That means you.”  
   
“You can’t be serious… You’re not, right? This is a joke?”  
   
Instead of answering his perplexed question, Mirka put unfolded the piece of paper she had retrieved from her book and put it down in front of him. Roger stared at it barely seeing beyond the well known ATP logo before he focused on the actual words on the paper. Halfway through he stopped, completely at a loss... This was definitely official and it definitely stated that he was to see a therapist – including a set time and date for the appointment. It was not a joke, it was an official invite. Still it felt like one.

He looked up to meet his wife's eyes and there was something shining there that managed to scare him. As hard as Mirka tried to look like she had no opinion on the matter and was just relaying facts to him, he could tell she was delighted by this. It was quite literally shining in her eyes. Roger however couldn't have been more disgusted with this farce of a reaction to what had happened in Paris. And he surely wasn't about to allow somebody else to decide what he needed and where he was going. He crossed his arms, anger and indignation lacing his voice.  
   
“What does that even mean, mandatory? What the hell do they think they can do if I don’t go.”  
   
Mirka didn't answer him. She leaned a little closer instead and tapped on a paragraph to the end of the letter, written in a smaller fond. Roger had skipped over that one in his reading so far, focusing on the important facts. He didn’t have to read it now either. His wife told him before he had a chance to even finish the first sentence.  
   
“Suspend you.”  
   
“They can’t do that!”  
   
“I assure you they can and I will make sure they will. I want you to see that therapist.”

She was stern now, unrelenting and finally that glimmer in her eyes made sense. She had hope – hope that this would finally get her to where she had wanted him more than a week ago. He had stalled then, had been able to talk her into giving him more time but now – with this – he had no chance to escape. He had to see this therapist or risk consequences and obviously his wife was very unwilling to do anything on his behalf in the matter of avoiding this ridiculous set-up. 

Anger and a feeling of betrayal bubbled up inside of him. This wasn't fair and it certainly wasn't what they had discussed only six days ago! Mirka had backtracked then. She had agreed, she had allowed him an extension on the time he felt he needed to get better and he felt he had done well. He had been calmer, the nightmares had been infrequent, the panic attacks hadn't recurred. Granted he still felt guilty and he still slept little but there was definitely some improvement... He felt he deserved a little bit of trust and good will for that.   
   
“Haven’t you been listening? I don’t need a therapist. We agreed to give it more time.”  
   
“No, we didn’t agree on anything. You demanded and I relented. Well I’m done with that. It’s been six weeks, Roger. You’ve had enough time but you’re not getting any better. And I for one am sick and tired of seeing you like this. Go see the therapist. Please…”  
   
She had done it again. Pleading with him in that desperate tone of voice that made it impossible to argue or fight her on her wishes. Roger gave a defeated sigh. As much as it pained him that his wife didn't seem to trust his judgment, the last thing he wanted was to hurt her... He hated even the idea of it but still he relented. Nowhere in the invite did it say that he actually had to talk to that therapist. It just stated he had to meet with her. That he could do.  
   
“Alright, fine.”


	26. Back to the beginning

*45 days after the final* 

Toronto

Mirka was waiting for him outside when Roger left the office building near the tournament grounds of the Toronto Masters where the therapist he had been mandated to see had her office. It was not an ideal mix up to have her here right now with him still upset and angry about the questions the therapist had asked and the insinuations she had made towards his coping mechanisms... He would have liked a moment to calm his emotions, gather his thoughts and find his composure again before he stepped back out for the world to see, for Mirka to see...

But his wife had insisted on taking him here and on waiting for him to return and take him back to the hotel. It wasn't out of sympathy or concern though, he knew that. Maybe she felt sympathy as well but that wasn't the main reason. She was simply afraid he wouldn't have gone to the appointment if she didn't make sure and that was what this was all about. He probably shouldn't be blaming her for it. After all she had firmly believed a therapist was a good, helpful idea. It wasn't exactly surprising either that she was questioning him about the meeting as soon as he was back in the waiting car with her. 

“How did it go?”

“It went okay. Nothing much to tell really.”

He was slightly amazed at his own ability to sound calm and collected even though he felt nothing like it. For just the briefest of moments he believed it had actually worked and he had been convincing because Mirka just looked at him in response, silent and unmoving for a long moment. Her scrutiny was awkward though and when she finally let out a small defeated smile he knew he had been anything but successful in convincing her that there was nothing remotely interesting to say about the appointment he had just left from. She cast her eyes down, not looking at him when she called him out on his deflective tactics in a soft, sad tone of voice.

“You're doing it again.”

“What?”

“Deflecting, stalling... Shutting me out.”

When she finally did look up, disappointment was shining in her eyes and Roger could feel a knot forming in his stomach. It was exactly why he hadn't wanted her here... She had been so hopeful about the outcome of this meeting whereas he couldn't have been happier to have it done and over with... She wasn't exactly wrong with her assessment of hos behavior and Roger wasn't sure whether to feel annoyed or grateful at the fact that she could read him so easily. It made it impossible to keep the farce going. Honesty certainly was the best way to go – at least to a certain extent. 

“This woman was both disrespectful and insensitive and she was rude and blunt as well. Even if you were right and I might need help with what I have been going through, this person definitely is the wrong one for the task.”

“Okay.”

The reaction was not what he had expected. He had expected a lenghty, emotionally draining argument but none of it happened. Instead they sat together for the rest of the drive, silent and awkward. He didn't know what else to say, which words to use to defuse the situation and soothe his wife's anger. And Mirka seemed deeply lost in her own thoughts, unwilling to engage in any further conversation with him. When the car came to a halt in the driveway of the hotel, she was the first to be outside and she didn't wait for him.

Little did he know that she didn't do it because she was angry with him or meant to punish him for not letting her in on his thoughts and feelings yet again. She was driven and determined by an idea Roger himself had just managed to give her. She had a mission, a plan of what was to be done next. And she could have kicked herself for not thinking of it earlier. As much as her husband claimed he was better, the only one Roger could actually fool with that was himself.

Even the kids had picked up on it and that was what bothered Mirka the most. She was a strong, independent, well balanced person and she was able to put up with both her husbands antics and his inability to simply just talk to her. It hurt but she could deal with it. The kids however were a different matter. Their father's recent changes in behavior made them feel insecure and . Of course he didn't do it on purpose but it still hurt the kids and Mirka was unwilling to tolerate that for any time longer.

She had gone about it all wrong though, she realized that now. She had hoped and trusted that Roger would finally realize on his own that he was handling this whole situation wrong and needed help with it. But that hadn't happened and all she had done was to try and push him to act. It had taken a long time but just there back in the car she had realized he needed more than just a little push. He needed an intervention, needed for somebody to take charge on his behalf.

She was the one, the only person to do that. It had never been about pride and the inability to accept help, not really. The question wasn't whether Roger needed help because that was pretty much a given in Mirka's book. The tricky thing was to find the right kind of help, the right person to finally break down the wall her husband had surrounded himself with and get him to talk. She had tried but she very obviously hadn't been able to achieve that goal. But she would be damned if she didn't find another solution, somebody qualified to do it. She would start on doing just that right now. And this time there would be no deflection, no argument and no attempt at stalling Roger could come up with, that would get him out of finally getting the help he so obviously and desperately needed... 

#*#*#*#

Barcelona 

It had been a fairly easy decision what it was Rafa wanted and needed to get on with the process of getting back on his feet a little bit quicker. He had asked for his own physio to come, a man he long since worked with and who knew exactly how far Rafa would be able to push himself without overdoing things. Of course it hadn’t exactly gone over well with the hospital but he hadn’t cared. Maymo was somebody he long since knew and trusted. A friend and a confidante who would not question him on the intensity of his therapeutic effort, knowing fully well that after years and years of bitter experience on the matter, Rafa knew what he was doing when it came to the limits of his own physicality.  
   
And it had helped. The physical therapy had grown more intense leaving him feeling exhausted and with a burning sensation in his legs on most days. But the reward was worth all the pain and tiredness that had come with it. It had been almost two weeks of this now but he was able to walk – all on his own , unsupervised and without getting dizzy or feeling weak. Of course he still couldn't move around for any extended periods of time and the recovery process was a long way away from finished but he was exactly where he wanted to be.

Today was one of those perfect mid August days – sunny, surprisingly not too hot and with a sky so clear and blue it was breathtaking that it hadn't been difficult to make a decision on where to spend the time. It had been Maymo who had urged Rafa outside. He had been a little reluctant about the idea at first. Outside seemed like such a foreign concept to him after all this time in hospital rooms and corridors... It would be the very first time in a month and a half he was actually outside with fresh air to breathe and the warmth of the sun on his back...

The apprehension had disappeared as soon as they had reached the small stretch of green that belonged to the hospital grounds. Rafa had no other words for it - he enjoyed being out here immensely. Instead of their usual regimen of strengthening the still recuperating muscles in his legs, Maymo had opted for going for a simple walk. It had been a somewhat surprising decision but Rafa found out pretty soon that it had been for the benefit of pushing a conversation on him, one Rafa wasn't exactly sure he wanted to have... They had been halfway around the park on their first round when Maymo had started with the topic out of the blue.   
   
“Apparently the ATP offered players to see a therapist. To talk about Paris…”  
   
“How would you know about that?”  
   
“Carlos told me.”  
   
“And why are you telling me?”  
   
“I thought maybe it was something you might want to consider as well? The doctors here, they never suggested it because you said you don’t remember. But you do… Bits and pieces only, I know, but it’s not like the memory is completely gone. And there’s no denying that it’s affecting you. Maybe talking about it helps.”  
   
“How?”  
   
“I don’t know. I’m no psychologist. But isn’t that the general consensus? If something bad happens to you, you talk to somebody about it and that helps you work through it?”  
   
“I guess.”  
   
“You’re nervous.”  
   
“Am not.”  
   
“You’re fidgeting.”  
   
He loved the man with all his heart but he hated the fact that – after all this time they had spent together, knowing each other so well – Maymo was easily able to read the tell tale signs that indicated something was wrong or bothering Rafa. He wasn't wrong though. The topic wasn't one Rafa was keen on and he would have appreciated not to be reminded of the fact that there was a psychological component to his injury he hadn't exactly dealt with as of yet. It hadn't been out of unwillingness though. It was a simple matter of priority.

First and foremost Rafa wanted to be physically well enough to finally go home. After all these weeks he never wanted to see another hospital from the inside for as long as he lived. It was wishful thinking, he knew that but still that was what he was focused on. Mental repercussions were not on his mind right now. After all he hadn't been going through nightmares or any other adverse psychological reactions in the aftermath of his injury. He was apprehensive, he hated the fact that his attacker was still out there and the though of how close he had come to loosing his life scared him. But none of those reactions had struck him as over the top or particularly out of place. IN his mind he was dealing well with everything that had happened and he saw no need to have somebody poke around in his mindset to find some angle to the whole thing that would mark him as a mental case. He shrugged at Maymo deliberately trying to sound indifferent.  
   
“I just don’t want to talk about this. It’s not the right time. I’m still barely able to walk for more than half an hour at a time… I want to focus on that, on getting my strength back, on getting back to normal physically before I think about anything else.”  
   
“Okay.”  
   
And that was that. There was no further discussion, no attempt at changing his mind. … His physio knew and trusted him enough to accept that this was his decision to make and that he had enough sense to make a good choice. Rafa had to smile at the realization. It hadn't happened often in the last weeks that his judgment had been trusted... They had walked on in silence after that but it hadn’t been a long outing out in the sund. They had managed two more rounds around the hospital’s private little park at a rather slow pace until the all too familiar burning sensation in his legs had told Rafa that his fatigue was winning the better of him. Combined with that rather unpleasant conversation Maymo had forced on him, it wasn’t exactly surprising but still Rafa was anything but pleased at the development.  
   
He felt he still tired way too easily but Maymo had assured him he was doing great and that he simply needed more time and more exercise to allow his body to return to the previous state of what had been normal for him. They had stopped and gone back inside when the first wave of dizziness had appeared seemingly out of nowhere. It had happened a couple of times, especially towards the end of therapy sessions and there was never any warning. One moment he was fine, the next blood was rushing in his ears and his vision started tunneling.  
   
A couple of minutes on a park bench outside and half a bottle of water that Maymo had taken along had helped. It was a frustrating experience but he had been told time and time again that he needed to be patient… After all even he couldn’t deny that the changes that happened were all for the better. He was off any medication and monitoring equipment, he was back on his own two feet and with every day passing by he grew a little bit stronger. It was only a matter of time now before he would finally be out of the hospital and back home.  
   
When they had returned to his hospital room, his doctor in charge had been waiting for him and just as if he had been able to read what was going through Rafa’s mind, had told him that after consulting with the physical therapist and Dr. Cotorro they had decided it was time for him to go home. The rest of his recovery process did not need to be supervised by a doctor and a hospital. They wanted an additional day for a last round of tests and by the day after that he would be on his way home.  
   
As if today hadn’t been going well enough already, there was yet another nice surprise still in store for him in the early afternoon of the same day. His mother had come by for a visit and had a wide somewhat mischievous smile on her face when she entered his room. She had left the door ajar, only opening it fully upon her next words, revealing yet another visitor, one Rafa truly hadn't expected.  
   
“I brought a surprise for you.”  
   
“Carlos!”  
   
“Hey kid… How are you doing?”  
   
The last time he had seen his trainer and friend had been in Paris a day or two after fully waking up from his drug induced sleep. Carlos had been overjoyed to see him awake and had scolded him for the scare he had sent all of them through. Of course he hadn't meant it in a bad way. It had been his way of telling Rafa how happy and grateful he was for his recovery. Carlos had gone back home to his family two days after that and had been with them ever since. This was their first meeting in almost a month and there was only one way to answer Carlos question. The short but accurate answer made the older man smile and had him nod approvingly.

“Better.”  
   
“You look a lot better too. Thinner, paler but still better.”


	27. All the facts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't hate Carlos too much.  
> He's just doing what he thinks is right...
> 
> <>°O°<>

Carlos had debated long and hard whether to do this or not. In the end it had been Rafa himself who took the decision away from him. The information had been relayed to him through Rafa's parents that the further the younger man’s recovery progressed and the closer he was to getting back to some semblance of normal, the more adamant he had become to finally get into contact with Roger and thank him for what he had done. 

Carlos hadn’t wanted that to happen – not knowing what he knew… Rafa deserved better than to obliviously charge into a situation the Swiss could potentially even gain from. It was the main reason he had come to Barcelona. It seemed his family had a hard time of keeping Rafa away from a phone and Carlos had not wanted to risk any contact between his charge and the Swiss player to happen before he had a chance to talk to Rafa about that day in Paris when Roger had come to his room with that godawful letter. 

It hadn't been any easy decision to make but he had finally decided that Rafa deserved to know and not only so that he wouldn’t make a fool of himself when he finally spoke to Roger. He probably wouldn’t want to do that anyway anymore once he had all the facts. It was hard but it needed to be done - even if it hurt Rafa, even if it crushed his spirits, telling him the truth was more important. He needed to know the full story behind the attack on him in Paris and only showing him that letter Roger had brought Carlos could achieve that goal.

Ana had left the alone to speak to one another in private shortly after introducing Carlos as Rafa's surprise visitor. The younger man had proposed for them to go to the hospital cafeteria but Carlos had declined. For what he had to tell Rafa he didn't want to be in a place where other people could watch or listen in. They needed privacy and a chance for Rafa to let his emotions out without any spectators. Above all other things Carlos was sure this would be an unpleasant conversation – necessary but awful. 

They had chatted for a little while, talked about Carlos' family and the way things had been going for Rafa since had been transferred to Barcelona. Calros felt no rush to put the devastating revelation about Roger's involvement in the attack on the younger man. He wanted to ease into it, wanted to make sure Rafa felt comfortable and relaxed before he finally brought up the dreaded topic. 

“There is something I need you to see.”

“Okay.”

“But I need to warn you. It's... kind of disturbing. And it will probably be very hard on you to find out about this.”

“What are you talking about, Carlos?”

Rafa sounded curious and a little cheeky, like he was sure all Carlos was doing was trying to either tease him or pull his leg. Carlos had to hide back a sigh at the innocence displayed – especially after everything that had happened. He was sure the sensation would change within the next couple of minutes. Stalling himself for what was to come, he pulled out the sheet of paper but hesitated to give it to Rafa.

“There's two things you need to know first. One – Roger gave this to me and two – whoever wrote this is a pretty fanatic fan of Roger's so please don't take to heart what they say about you.”

Carlos finally put the letter down on the table and watched Rafa closely while he inspected the offered piece of paper. He read slowly and carefully the first time, then apparently read it again and then a third time. Carlos concern grew with every time he could see the younger man's eyes skip over the words on the paper yet again. Rafa however was unaware of the older man's scrutiny. He was too transfixed on the word, absolutely sure that he had misunderstood some part of the letter because of the fact that it was in English. There had to be some mistake. Maybe this was a really bad, really distasteful joke on him… But Carlos wouldn’t do that and looking at him quickly, his facial features didn’t betray the tiniest bit of humor, just tension and an ever growing concern. … Finally Carlos couldn’t take the loaded silence any longer.

“Rafa, please say something...”

“When did you get this?”

“Two days after you were attacked.”

“Oh... That's... Okay.”

The answer was giving some peace of mind to Rafa. Reading the letter again and again and knowing that Roger had been the one to give a copy to Carlos, he couldn't help but wonder how long the letter had been in Roger's possession. Carlos answer however was a relief. It meant Roger had been informed by the deranged fan who had written this letter to him only after the attack. Roger hadn't been able to know, hadn't been able to do anything about it and had probably been devastated at receiving this appalling piece of mail... Carlos pretty much crushed those hopeful thoughts with the smallest of sighs. The older man didn't like what he had to do, to say next. But as much as he hated to crush the younger man’s hopes and spirit yet again, he had to do it. The truth needed to be told. 

“I know what you wanted to ask and as much as it pains me to say this and as much as you will hate the answer but Roger knew about this letter before he gave it to me. Long before... From what he told me it was given to him two days before the final. He knew what was going to happen, Rafa. He knew and he did nothing to stop it.”

“But why?! Why do this? Why let this happen and then come to my side and help me. He was there to help, Carlos. He stopped the bleeding, he kept me awake, he did everything in his power to keep me alive long enough so that the doctors at the hospital could save me. Why do all that when he knew? If he didn't want this to happen to me, he could have told somebody about the letter... And if he wanted it to happen to me, he could have not helped. He could have let me bleed until... Why this?!”

Rafa knew his emotions were wining the better of him, making his voice crack and his muscles tense up. But he couldn't help it. None of this made any sense to him. Roger had been right there on the court with him to help, to stop him from bleeding out, to save his life... There was no sensible explanation why the Swiss would go through all that trouble if he had deliberately let it happen in the first place. Rafa simply refused to believe Roger had done this knowing fully well Rafa would be attacked and hurt in the first place. There simply had to be another, a better explanation! Unfortunately Carlos had one at hand, one that send a cold chill down Rafa's spine. 

“I have thought about that a really long time and the only explanation I have is not pleasant. I don't think you want to hear it.”

“Tell me!”

“I think he wanted you out of the way. He certainly didn't want you to die, I'm sure of that. But not having you compete makes things a lot easier for him and he didn't even have to do anything about it. All he needed to do was keep his mouth shut. And that he did. Now you are off the tour and you will be for quite a while now and he has all the time in the world to cement his standing in the rankings. I know it's hard to take but it's the only plausible explanation I could come up with.”

Rafa shook his head forcefully, mostly against the tiny voice in the back of his head that was telling him Carlos was spot on with his explanation. He refused to believe that voice of reason though, telling him Carlos had a point. He knew Roger – well and extensively or at least that was how he felt about it. They hadn't always seen eye to eye on things and of course Roger was a fierce competitor but above all he was fair and moral and a good person. There was no way that he had done any of this on purpose.

“I don't believe that. Roger wouldn't do something like this. Not in a million years! There has to be another explanation. And even if you were right, it doesn't make any sense. Why give that letter to you if he knew before and only did it to hurt me? Why not just destroy it and never tell anyone about it? It makes no sense.”

“Maybe it doesn't, maybe there is another explanation. He claimed there was. He told me he didn't know about the letter until after the final because only then did somebody from his media team bring it to him. I thought it was a vicious lie at the time. But it would explain why he has competed in only one match since the French Open... and that one he lost.”

Rafa liked the version Roger had told a lot better. It was one he could believe in as well. If Roger had – for some reason – found out about the letter only afterwards, there was no need to blame him. It still left the big question why nobody on Roger's team had insisted on telling him about it before it was too late and that was an uneasy thought to beat. The rest of Carlos' answer came as a surprise to Rafa. He hadn't followed anything tennis related these last couple of weeks, being fully focused on his recovery instead. He did know Roger was supposed to play two tournaments in preparation for Wimbledon which he obviously hadn't done though. He could only assume it was because Roger hadn't felt up to it. But if it was due to feeling guilty for knowing Rafa would get injured and having allowed it or because he had found out afterwards and blamed himself for not finding out about it sooner, there was no way to tell.

“Only one? I don't understand. He was supposed to play two tournaments in Germany after the French Open. And what about Wimbledon?”

“He pulled out of those tournaments, Rafa. And as for Wimbledon. He lost. His first round match. Against a qualifier. In four sets, one of them 6:0.”

“That doesn't sound like Roger.”

Carlos shrugged his shoulders in response. Rafa wasn't exactly wrong but Carlos had put Roger's early loss into perspective, believing firmly that it was guilt gnawing at the Swiss that had completely destroyed his confidence in his own game. He could only speculate of course. There hadn't even been a post match press conference as Roger had been 'held up by more pressing responsibilities' as it had been put by the tournament officials. It didn't matter anyway. To Carlos it fell right into place as a consequence to Roger's actions that had let to Rafa's injury.

“But that is what happened.”

“So maybe you are wrong. Maybe he didn't know just as he claimed and now he is having a hard time because he blames himself for not finding out sooner...”

Carlos had expected Rafa to look for the best possible explanation, unwilling to believe the worst of the people he knew and had befriended up to a certain point. But Carlos had a long time to think about it and to him it didn't really matter. If Roger had known before and had not acted on it or if he had found out afterwards due to some unfortunate circumstances really made no difference to Carlos. In the end Rafa had been hurt either way. He gave the younger man a soft, sympathetic smile, trying to ease the blow of stating his own assessment. 

“Maybe. Or he feels guilty because he allowed this to happen and now regrets that you were hurt this badly and he lost his match because of that. It doesn't matter. The facts remain the same. You were hurt and he played a role in it. There's no denying that.”

“No... No, there isn't.”


	28. For the moment

*3 days later*

Toronto

 

Mirka had been somehow different ever since their discussion about the visit to the therapist. She had been determined and focused without Roger being able to tell on what. There had been phone calls she had taken outside, things she had looked up and typed down on her laptop without letting him see. She was definitely up to something and at first he had dreaded the outcome of her sudden shift in behavior. But apart from that she had left him be, hadn't shot him concerned looks, hadn't scrutinized, hadn't argued with him and had allowed him to carry on with his destructive behavior without interfering. She seemed more at ease, relaxed even...

Right now she was outside on the balcony of their hotel room. There had been a call and she had taken both her phone and her coffee outside, leaving the sliding door only slightly ajar. Roger had decided not to go after her. If she sought privacy like this it probably meant he wasn't supposed to listen in on the call. He had watched her though. The call hadn't been long and afterwards she had been working on her laptop for a while. As she calmed out to him now, he almost winced. He walked up to the balcony and stepped outside to have a chance at a conversation that wasn't yelled across the room. 

“What is it?”

„He left the clinic.”

“Who?”

“Rafa. He left the clinic in Barcelona. This morning. I just read an article and saw pictures.”

Roger frowned in confusion at the information. It had always been him who had shown an interest in the progress Rafa had made with his recovery. But then again Mirka's behavior had been off the entire week. Maybe this was just another side effect... Still he couldn't help but question her motives. 

“Why would you look at pictures? Why would you even know?”

“Because the media are like vultures with this. If there’s news about him, the media will broadcast it. And that’s what they did.”

“Do I want to see those pictures?”

“No. Probably not.”

The answer surprised him and alarmed him at the same time and not just because his wife hadn't been this blunt and direct in any answer regarding news about Rafa ever before since the incident in Paris. It was yet another piece of the puzzle in her odd behavior. Of course he could have snatched the laptop away where the article was probably still visible on an opened webpage. But she probably wouldn't appreciate the gesture and she had warned him for a reason... Instead of going for the device he settled down opposite of her, trying to gather more information first. 

“Is it really that bad?”

“All by itself, not really. Compared to before it happened? Definitely.”

To his utter surprise his wife turned her laptop to him without any further discussion so that he had a chance to inspect both the article and the pictures coming along with it for himself. He only skimmed over the article, focusing on the pictures. It were the first professional quality ones he had seen of the Spaniard since the attack during the Roland Garros final and Mirka had been right to warn him. He swallowed hard.

“You were right. This is… He lost a lot of weight… and color…”  
   
“Getting stabbed in the back and spending almost eight weeks in a hospital will do that to you.”  
   
“How can you be so… disrespectful about this?!”  
   
“I’m not. It’s just how it is.”

She said it matter of factly and somehow that managed to evaporate the righteous anger he had felt just a moment ago. The way she had talked about the consequences the attack had on Rafa's health had been dismissive in the choice of words but there had been sympathy to her voice. He had to overhear that given her phrasing. But it was meant as bitter sarcasm, not as an insult. Roger shifted his focus back on the article but didn't immediately find the information he was looking for, asking his wife instead.   
   
“Did he go home?”  
   
“That’s what the article says.”  
   
“Good. That’s good. That means he’s better. Not okay, not by a long shot judging from this pictures, but better. Yeah… He’s going to be fine.”  
   
“Roger, you’re rambling.”

He stopped mid sentence at her observation and couldn't stop the small smile flitting over his face. She was not wrong, he actually had allowed his incoherent thoughts to just flow out of him with no filter. The amusing moment was quickly over though. Mirka's next statement sent a shiver down his spine. She had - probably purposefully – started on a topic he very particularly did not want to talk about because it was so, so hard to stay calm and detached through it.   
   
“I wonder why he never even attempted to contact you though. Looks well enough to pick up a phone for me.”  
   
“He doesn’t owe me anything.”  
   
“How about his life?”

“That's ridiculous. I barely did anything. The doctors saved his life... and his own stubbornness and will to endure did that. It's not my praises to sing.”

There was a lot of vehemence and a slight tremble of emotion to his voice. Mirka simply gave a small shrug in response. If his wife noticed how hard talking about this was, she didn't let it show. She turned the laptop back around, acting like this loaded discussion was no longer of much of any interest to her. Somehow Roger had a hard time believing that. Not after her constant insistence and interference over the course of the last weeks that he needed help in cooping with the aftermath of Rafa's injury. But he didn't dwell on it, taking what he could get instead.

“I still think it's odd he didn't try to contact you. If not to say thank you, then to at least ask how you are doing. After all you were right there with him...”

“Maybe he will now that he left the hospital and is back home.”

“Yes. Maybe.”

They both knew Rafa wouldn't call. He hadn't done so before and he wouldn't now. Of course they both knew perfectly well as well why that was. Mirka had read in one of the articles that Carlos Moya had been to visit Rafa in Barcelona. Which meant – with almost absolute certainty – that the Spaniard knew about the letter and only knew what his trainer thought it meant... There was no way Roger would get any king of thankful gesture anytime soon...

To Mirka it was all the more reason to finally get Roger to go and see a qualified therapist. There was a reason she was so accepting of his disastrous coping mechanisms at the moment. She had not been idle in that respect. And help had finally been organized. It had taken only a couple of days of meticulous research and a few discreet phone calls until she had been called back with a recommendation only this morning which was why she had been out on the balcony in the first place, picking up the call out of Roger's earshot. 

“Hello?”

“Mrs. Federer? My name is Watkins, I am one of the ATP doctors assigned. You inquired about a therapist?”

“An unorthodox one is what I think I said.”

“Yes. Yes you did. And I think I got the right one for you. She's not exactly a therapist but a counselor, based out of Boston. Her name is Charlotte Montgomery, I believe she can help. She’s not your typical therapist… She’s unorthodox as you requested and a bit confrontational with a tendency to get to the heart of things without any pleasantries and than poke at it until you feel ready to explode… But I think she’s brilliant in what she does. And I think she’s exactly what you need… She likes a challenge.”  
   
#*#*#*#*#

Porto Cristo

Rafa was outside on the terrace of the family seaside home, lounging in a deckchair, halfway into dozing of from the sun on his face, the smell of the sea water in his nose and the wind whispering softly. He was finally home and he intended on not leaving any time soon. Unfortunately it wasn’t even a good feeling to be here. Nothing had felt joyous or encouraging to him ever since Carlos had told him about that letter and how it connected to both the attack on him and to Roger. He had debated more than a dozen times to simply write to the man or call him but he had never actually come up with enough courage to follow through on the idea. 

He hadn't talked to anyone about his lack of enthusiasm, had especially not talked to Carlos about the whole matter again and Rafa never would have admitted it to anyone but the revelation Carlos had made in the hospital in Barcelona had shaken him to his very core. He still had a hard time wrapping his head around the obvious facts. But they were there and they were true and somehow he simply couldn't find any other way to deal with them as to come to a full stop with everything.

That night after Carlos had told him about the letter and about Roger's part in the events that had caused his injury, Rafa had his first nightmare. He had never once before not been able to sleep through the night, which was one of the reasons he had dismissed Maymo's proposal of seeing a therapist. But in light of the new information, the knowledge he had gained that day, it seemed the floodgates of his mind had opened and all that hurt and pain was flowing out to haunt him in his sleep. 

He had dreamed of the final and it had all been just like he remembered it. There was the explosion in the stands and that sharp, unrelenting, excruciating pain in his lower back that had taken his breath away and had caused his legs to give way under him. He had ended up on his knees, gasping and in pain. But when he turned to see who had attacked him, there wasn't emptiness awaiting him. There was somebody there. But instead of the faceless attacker it had been Roger with the bloody knife in his hands, telling him that he was sorry, telling him he didn't mean to hurt him but that it had to be done...

Rafa had woken in a cold sweat with his back actually aching and stinging though he quickly realized it was simply due to the fact that he had tossed and turned in his sleep and his muscles had tensed up in the process. His shirt had been soaked through but even a trip to the bathroom and a fresh piece of clothing had done nothing to quell his swirling thoughts. He had been lying awake afterwards and had dreaded to go back to sleep.

It had happened eventually anyway, exhaustion winning the better of him. But it had been a fitful slumber and he had felt anything but rested when the nurse had woken him a couple of minutes before eight in the morning, telling him in a cheery tone that it was time for him to go home.   
He had felt no elation at that fact and that had pretty much been a constant since then. He hadn't been happy about leaving the hospital, hadn't been happy when he had stepped off the plane at Palma airport and hadn't been happy stepping across the threshold of the family seaside house in Porto Cristo. He simply couldn't bring himself to feel joy or excitement at anything. Not knowing what he knew now... 

He was going through the motions now. He ate when somebody put a plate of food in front of him, he went to sleep when somebody commented that it was late, he went through the exercises with his physio when he came by once a day for an hour and he answered questions and inquiries from friends and family members in a polite but detached manner whenever they asked how he was doing. But he had no drive, no initiative to do anything on his own. Nothing that presented itself to him at the moment could elicit any passion or interest from him.   
   
He didn’t know what to do. It was a disconcerting thought, one that had never happened to him before but it was there all the same. He hadn’t let it show to anyone because he didn't want them to worry. They probably did anyway but he couldn't bring himself to care about that either. He was simply deeply unsettled about what he now knew about the attack and Roger. And he didn't know how to handle that knowledge. The only thing he did know for sure was that he could not simply go back to the way his life had been before. How was he supposed to return to a profession and a whole life where people risked his health for their gain…

Tennis was not even remotely on the forefront of his thinking at the moment. Not that much of anything was. He simply didn't care enough or felt certain enough of himself to make any plans, not even for the nearest future. Right now he was simply going from day to day, hoping for nothing out of the ordinary to happen, for nobody to ask any nosy questions and for people to simply leave him be. It was already as much as he could bear to deal with at the moment. 

He knew he couldn't go on like this forever. Sooner or later questions would arise about his behavior and he would have to tell his team and his family eventually that he couldn't even imagine leaving Mallorca and returning to professional tennis. But as there was nothing to tell as of yet, no plans made on his part, he decided to wait. He knew he was still recuperating, still weak and thin and healing, in need of medical check-ups and physical therapy. Once all of that was behind him and he felt back to normal, maybe he would make a decision. Until then it would all be about being home and trying his hardest to relearn to enjoy the simple fact that days passed and he was still here to bear witness to it. For the moment that was enough for him.


	29. Own it or kiss it goodbye

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi people, sorry it's been a while.  
> Had a couple of other things on my mind and couldn't keep to the schedule.
> 
> Now this and the two next ones are probably my favorite chapters of the whole story.  
> I had fun exploring the sibling relationship and I do hope you like it too.
> 
> The song at the beginning is "Choke" from Sheppard.
> 
> Enjoy.
> 
> <>°O°<>

_You think you're losing but you're doing alright  
You'd be a lion if you knew you could fight_

_This is a moment in the prime of your life  
You better own it or you'll kiss it goodbye_

Maribel had been in the kitchen, headphones on, tidying up the worktops and doing the dishes while listening to her music, softly humming along and swooping through the room with the rhythm of the up tempo song. She was lost in the music, lost in the joy she felt at it and she almost jumped when she detected her brother standing in the doorway, staring at her with that empty expression on his face she had learned to both dread and hate over the course of the last couple of days. She paused the music, pulled the headphones down and glared at him, though there was no venom to the gesture.

“Rafa! You scared me half to death! Don't sneak up on me like this and don't watch me make a fool of myself! How long have you been standing there?”

“Not long. And you're not being foolish. You're having a good time...”

Maybe it was just her imagination but to Maribel it sounded like there was the tiniest hint of reproach in her brother's voice. Other than that he simply sounded tired... and uncaring. He looked around the kitchen, obviously embarrassed for having her do all the work around here. He sounded sad instead of grateful but then again sad, unsure and undetermined especially had been prominent features on her brother these last eight days since he was home again.

“You didn't have to do this...”

“I wanted to. And who would have done it if not me?”

“There's this totally new invention called a dishwasher, you know...”

“And who would have taken care of that? You?”

There was an awkward silence between them as Maribel's unspoken accusation stood in the room gaining momentum. She was angry and she had let it show even though she had sworn to herself she would be patient with her brother. He had been through a lot. He deserved time to readjust, regroup and get his bearings. But still she couldn't help but feel disconcerted at the fact he hadn't done any of that until now. It just wasn't like him... Instead of dwelling on the bitter thought, Maribel tried to keep to the facts of what she had been doing for him since she had come here today. 

“I prepared dinner for you, it's in the fridge. You just have to heat it up again. I'll come back tomorrow, bring lunch, make dinner and take care of laundry... I have to go back to Palma now. Work stuff.”

“You don't have to...”

He was about to tell her yet again that she didn't need to help, didn't need to make sure he was taken care of. But there was no appreciation to his words, just sadness and an inability to sound sincere. Maribel had put up with this for over a week now, had been there for him, had taken care of the every day chores and all she ever got in return was a blatant comment that her efforts were unwanted and unnecessary. She had tried so, so hard to be patient but her brother made it excruciatingly difficult... She couldn't help it, she snapped.

“Oh, shut up! Of course I have to! Because you won't do it! You're not doing anything around here! You keep wallowing in self pity or whatever else it is that has been eating at you, not taking responsibility, not taking care of anything whatsoever and leaving others to do even the simplest tasks for you. It's a miracle you manage to keep yourself clothed and fed and even that we do for you!”

“Mari...”

“You know what?! Screw this! Screw you! I'm leaving and I won't come back!”

Fury completely winning the better of her, she threw the dish towel she had been holding in her hands onto the worktops ready to storm out. But Rafa was still standing in her way and he didn't let her brush past him just like that. She had half expected him to step out of the way and yet again show no signs that he cared about her fury. But he actually grabbed for her arm instead but even now there was no determination to it. As soon as she glared up at him he let go off her like he had been burned. He didn't just let her leave like this either though. His tone of voice had a pleading quality to it now, one she had rarely ever heard from him before. However it did nothing to quell her raging anger as she stopped mid stride and spun back around to face him. 

“Maribel, please..”

“What?! What exactly is it that you're asking of me? What do you want from me?!”

“Tell me what to do...”

The request caught her completely off guard. She couldn't remember a single time in her life when her brother had asked her for direction. Advice certainly, support just the same, but direction – never even once. It just wasn't like him, so much so that it scared her. It was like they had somehow exchanged the real person for some robotic version before sending him home from Barcelona. A version that looked like Rafael but was unable to copy his emotions... She shook her head at him, the disconcerting thought sending a shiver down her spine. Her voice was calmer and more sympathetic now at the display of her brother's overwhelming uncertainty and forlornness. 

“I can't do that. What I can do I to tell you what I want.”

“What's that?”

“I want my brother back, damn it. I want the man back who couldn't wait to leave the clinic in Barcelona and couldn't wait to return back to normal. But ever since you're home you just... stopped. If it weren't for the physio coming here every day, you wouldn't even try to get some semblance of strength back! You have no plan, no idea what to do with yourself... You can't just sit here and hide yourself away for the rest of your life. You're 33 years old, for heaven's sake! You need a plan! I want you to have one. I want you to care! I want you to be responsible. Take care of your correspondence and calls, finally get a follow up appointment with a good doctor, decide what you want to do with yourself and then get your butt into gear and get going. That's what I want.”

There was a moment of long, loaded silence between them. It dragged on and Maribel was about ready to give up on her brother and simply leave, sure he would not react to her plea to finally take charge. But he did, though she could barely make out the words because his voice was so low, and he didn't make any eye contact with her. When she deciphered the words, she was at a complete loss as to their meaning. None of this made any sense to her... 

“They don't want me.”

“What on earth are you talking about.”

“On the tour. Playing tennis. They don't want me.”

“Who?”

“The fans. The other players. Roger... It was one of his fans that attacked me and he knew about it. He knew I was going to get hurt and he didn't do anything to stop it. Nobody did anything to stop it... Why would I want to return to that?”

“Rafa, you're not making any sense.”

Finally he looked up and she was pretty sure there were tears in his eyes. Somehow that actually managed to soothe her. It was the first genuinely emotional reaction she had seen on Rafa since he had come back home. She could practically see how he braced himself for the onslaught of emotion that would go along with what he had to tell her. He took a deep breath and then he started to explain. He told her about Carlos revelation, relayed the whole story to her that Carlos had told him and even showed her the letter. 

It took a while and Maribel had been listening in silence. He had watched her read through the letter, had seen the color drain from her face and then turn into a prominent red. She had been angry, she had been devastated and he was sure she felt for him. But when he finally finished, her reaction wasn't even remotely close to what he had expected.

“This is it? One deranged lunatic and some half truths from Carlos blaming Roger Federer for something he can impossibly know if it has really happened this way or not?! That is your reasoning?! By that standards I shouldn't be leaving my apartment any more because I could get run over by some guy driving with road rage and because some of my colleagues claim that our supervisor hates me...”

“It's not that simple.”

“It's exactly that simple. You're using this as an excuse. Well I'm not having this. If you want my help with anything whatsoever, you will find a different way to deal with your problems. Hiding and running has never been your style. Don't start with it now. You love this sport, Rafa – you love the game, you love the competition. You owe it to yourself to at least try… There have been so many setbacks over the years, so many difficult times, so many heartbreaking, spirit-crushing moments. But you always fought through them…”

Rafa almost wished he had a little more passion and stamina to have this argument properly. After Maribel's blatant ignorance towards the pain and anguish he felt at the existence of that letter and how it tied into Roger's involvement in the attack on him, he wanted to yell at her. But instead of feeling emotional, he mostly felt numb. And he had no energy to come up with more than a shrug and a saddened display of denial in return. Maribel however was a hundred times more emotional than him... and a lot more determined.

“I had motivation then.”

“You should have motivation now! Even if you don’t believe me that nothing has changed and that they miss you and want you back, there’s still motivation. You’re not doing it for them anyway, you have to do it for yourself. Show them you won’t allow yourself to be broken by this. Show them that it takes more to crush you heart and spirit.”

“More than a knife in the back?”

That shut her up effectively but still Rafa regretted his reaction the very moment the words had left his lips and that devastated expression had appeared on his sister's face. It was the very first time in over a week though, the very first time he actually cared about something he said, something he did. He cared about Maribel, about what his sister wanted for him. And she was right about one thing. He owed it to himself to at least give it a try. If he felt uncomfortable or if it didn’t work out, he could wholeheartedly claim that he hadn’t simply given up... It was a hard, almost monumental task but he managed to put the smallest of smiles on his face, a gesture his sister mirrored at his timid words. 

“I will try…”

“That’s good enough for me.”


	30. Scars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thursday - update time. :)
> 
> Some more interaction between the siblings again.  
> Would be nice to hear from you people...
> 
> <>°O°<>

Porto Cristo

It had only been two days since their discussion but time didn't seem to play much of a part. It had all been about getting through to her brother and now that she had, the change in him had been so imminent, so drastic Maribel sometimes still believed she had somehow stepped into a parallel world where the brother she had come to be so frustrated about since his return home had been exchanged for the previous version – the passionate, stubborn, determined one she had so desperately missed and hoped for to come back to them.

They had doubled the time he spent with the physio every day and her brother had finally started to take care of the most important tasks at hand as well as including himself in the routine of daily chores to be taken care of at the house. There had been a collective sigh of relief from the entire family at the sudden change. There had been more smiles, generally more emotion from him as well and at their family dinner yesterday evening she had heard him laugh, a small, quiet laugh at that but still she needed a moment to even recall the last time she had seen and heard him like this.

She had felt he deserved a treat for the way he had managed to turn things around for himself and pull himself out of that deep, dark hole of desperation he had fallen into. It was why she had opted out of spending the evening after work with her boyfriend and had gone back to Porto Cristo instead, bringing sweets along with her. She had a key to the house of course but upon entering – key in one, cake in the other hand – there was nobody around to be seen. She was sure Rafa was home. He didn't exactly have anywhere else to go for the time being. She called out to him hoping to make her presence known and find out where he had disappeared to all at once.

“Rafa? It's me. I brought cake.”

There was a response somewhere not too far away but it was muffled and Maribel couldn't quite make it out. She called again, louder this time. Trying to get a location from her brother so she knew where to go. 

“Where are you?”

“Outside.”

Maribel walked to the kitchen, leaving the cake on one of the worktops, before crossing through the living room to the doors leading outside. She stepped outside through the half opened sliding doors and was surprised to find her brother not comfortably stretched out on one of the deckchairs but inside the pool halfway through a lane of breaststrokes. Somehow the combination of the fact that there were still healing surgical incisions and her brother was being in the water didn't quiet feel right to her….

“You're swimming...”

“The physio suggested it and I felt up for it. I'm done though, just give me a moment.”

He sounded a little out of breath but then again he usually did whenever he was doing physical therapy. The lethargy that had enraged her so much just a couple of days ago had completely vanished and had made way to an almost grim determination. Her brother was pushing himself very hard to get back into shape. She trusted him though and she trusted the physio's judgment. Now with that determination back, she knew her brother wouldn't risk anything that would set him back.

She watched him as he finished his lane and the climbed out of the pool, grabbing a towel that lay waiting for him on one of the lounge chairs. Looking at him while he ran the towel through his hair first, her gaze was suddenly drawn to the collection of reddish streaks on his lower left torso. She knew what they were of course but Maribel had never actually seen the scars before and she had a hard time not to stare. She needed a moment to find her voice again but was still unable to look away from the angry red lines marring her brother's skin and at his face instead while she talked to him. 

“I... I brought back some cake from Palma. Would you like some?”

“Let me take a quick shower first.”

She nodded at the answer but she didn't look at his face. She was still staring at the healing surgical incisions that were more wounds than scars as of yet in both morbid fascination and utter sympathy. Only looking at those long, still deeply red and somewhat swollen lesions was painful. She couldn't even imagine how Rafa felt actually having them... She was pulled from her thoughts and finally managed to look up when Rafa addressed her directly. 

“Mari?”

“Mh?”

“You're staring.”

She hadn't even been aware she was doing it, not really and she had been even less aware of the fact that she had been so obvious in doing it that her brother had noticed. But she couldn't help it. Of course she had been there through the worst of it at the hospital in Paris and she had seen Rafa in ICU, heavily sedated, closely monitored and with the ventilator breathing for him. But she had never actually seen the scar tissue left from the surgical team's effort to save her brother's life. Today – with her brother only half dressed from his swimming session – was the first time she actually saw them. She swallowed hard, trying to come up with a convincing lie for her behavior but finally decided that Rafa deserved better than this. He deserved for her to be honest.

“I'm sorry, it's just. I hadn't seen them before... the scars I mean...”

“They're not scars yet. It's all pretty fresh yet... still pink and a little bit swollen. They will get better I think.”

“I don't mind the scars, it's not that! It's just... It paints a very vivid picture of what they had to do to... to help you...”

She had wanted to say 'save you' but she hadn't dared. The whole topic of Rafa's hospital stay, how touch and go it had been for a while and how hard that had been on his family was sort of a sore spot. He hadn't talked about it and she hadn't asked. At least until now. She wasn't sure now was the right time either and decided to leave it up to Rafa. If he wanted to talk or ask anything, she was sure he would. Right now however he seemed deeply lost in thought, one of his hands lingering just above the long, reddish lines.

“I... I haven't really looked at them yet. Whenever the nurse came to change the dressing I was usually on my side because she needed to work front and back and I couldn't really see. I didn't want to, to be honest. She was always very careful and it never really hurt but it was uncomfortable. Of course I wasn't allowed to take the dressing off when I showered and had to work around them. I only ever saw them about two weeks ago for the first time when I had my first shower without the dressing... 

It's hard to process. I barely remember what happened to me. All I know is that one minute I was playing the final and I was on the winning side and then there's only pain and fuzzy fractions of memories... The next thing I know I wake up, weeks later, in pain, confused, with no feeling in my legs and no memory of where I am and how I got there... I don't even know in detail what happened and what the doctors did. I... I was too preoccupied with the paralysis to ever ask much of any questions and though they explained it to me I barely remember any of it. It's hard to look at those scars and actually feel... connected. It's like it happened to somebody else but I got to bear the scars for it... Does that make any sense?”  
   
“Yes. A lot actually. I... I could tell you. Tell you what happened? In detail? I mean I was there... actually, fully, consciously there...”  
   
“I really need that shower first.”

Maribel wasn't sure if her brother was deflecting or simply felt uncomfortable talking to her like this, dripping wet and barely dressed. She didn't get a chance to ask him though. Rafa had already wrapped the towel around his hips and was on his way inside. She followed him at a slower pace, closed the sliding doors behind her and went onto the kitchen to make some coffee and cut the cake. It was a somewhat silly sentiment, she knew that, but she hated the idea of using a long and sharp kitchen knife in the presence of her brother...  
   
As promised Rafa didn't take long with his shower and returned to her now fully dressed in shorts and a washed out shirt that had probably been a navy blue once. The smell of coffee was strong within the kitchen and Maribel had been busy getting cups and plates and cutlery, only realizing her brother was back when she saw him standing in the door. It was like a repeat of the very same scene only two days ago but this time he was smiling. A soft and genuinely happy smile. She mirrored the gesture, pointing at the kitchen table.  
   
“Cake is on the table. It's chocolate. I also made coffee...”  
   
She received a nod of approval in return and they settled down at the table, both of them taking their time with the small sweet meal. Maribel hadn't even tried her piece yet. She knew it was good. There was a reason she had chosen that particular bakery after all. She watched her brother closely instead of eating and felt a content swell of warmth in her chest at his genuinely happy and appreciative reaction.   
   
“This is really good.”  
   
“I know, right. It's that tiny little bakery near the cathedral. I rarely ever go there though. Too much temptation.”  
   
“I'm glad you did. This is amazing... Why though?”  
   
“I felt we both deserved a treat.”  
   
Rafa grinned at that. They both knew he was supposed to be careful with his diet as long as the process of his recovery hadn't yet come to a close. But one little exception certainly couldn't be all that bad... They sat in comfortable silence while eating and Maribel was pretty sure they wouldn't pick up their earlier conversation again. But it turned out she was wrong. Halfway through his cake and coffee, her brother took a break and looked at her for a long moment waiting for her to realize she was under scrutiny. Maribel looked up and saw him with his hand lingering over the site of the incisions yet again. The change of topic surprised her but it did not come unwanted.  
   
“What is really driving me crazy is the one small incision there is. It looks almost like the one I have from the appendectomy but I know it's not one of them because it's still pink... I know what the other three are from but that one completely eludes me...”   
   
“That was for drainage...”  
   
Maribel's voice sounded strained answering him and Rafa wasn't sure how to react to that piece of information. It made sense and he actually felt a little better knowing which procedure had caused the scar to be there. But Maribel knowing about it left him feeling pretty uneasy. Of course she knew, she had been there after all, more than he ever had been. She had been informed by the doctors while he had been unconscious in a hospital bed not knowing what was happening to him. She didn't seem to feel exactly comfortable with the whole topic either but she didn't shy away from it. After all she had been the one to offer him to talk about this in depth.  
   
“They look painful...”  
   
“The scars? Tender, not painful. Not anymore. Unless I overdo it. Straining the skin in that area is not a good idea.”  
   
“I mean I know what they had to do to get you back to us. The doctor explained it all. But somehow I imagined them to be smaller... less pronounced.”  
   
“They'll fade, Mari.”  
   
“Never completely.”  
   
She sounded distressed at the thought and that display of emotion hurt him more than anything she ever could have said. He hadn't been able to convince her that the scar tissue didn't bother him. It wasn't completely true. He hated the fact that the scars were there, hated the memory of his injury to be so prominently there all the time both visible and palpable but he knew all too well they also were a reminder of his life being saved and of how lucky he was and how grateful he should be to still be here. He shrugged in response to her defeated tone.  
   
“That's good I think. It will always remind me to appreciate life. Once a day, every day, when I get dressed in the morning.”  
   
“Isn't that depressing?”  
   
“I think it's something to be grateful for. They're not exactly nice to look at but them being there is what saved my life, is it not?”  
   
“I guess that makes sense...”  
   
Maribel still didn't sound entirely convinced but it seemed she was willing to accept his reasoning. She could tell there was something else her brother wanted to talk, could tell it from the way he fidgeted, trying to come up with the right words. He was fully focused on the half eaten piece of cake on his plate now, not looking at her when he finally managed to formulate the question.  
   
“Did you... did you see it? See what happened to me during the final?”  
   
“No, not really. We were all distracted by the explosion. But I got a glimpse of you down there on the court on your knees clutching at your back... But security ushered us from the stadium... and I was a little preoccupied with the blood seeping from the sleeve of my shirt as well...   
   
That immediately got his attention and he looked back up at her, eyes wide and concern shining in them. Maribel could have kicked herself for even mentioning the small cut she had received on that day. Compared to everything Rafa had gone through her own little injury seemed trivial and insignificant in comparison. But he cared, more than he probably should. He was being his usual protective self when it came to her.  
   
“You were hurt?!”  
   
“It sounds way worse than it actually was. It was just a cut.”  
   
It was blatantly obvious that her words had done nothing to convince him. The way he still looked at her one could imagine she had just told him her arm had been ripped off instead of cut. Deciding more words wouldn’t do the trick, she pulled up the sleeve of her shirt and showed him the fading scar on her lower right arm. Unfortunately it didn't go as planned. If anything he sounded even more sad and defeated then before.   
   
“You were hurt...”  
   
“It really wasn't a big deal, Rafa.”  
   
“They didn't tell me...”  
   
“Why should they? You had more important things to deal with. And I'm fine, really. It was healed long before... before...”  
   
“Before I woke up?”  
   
“Yes.”  
   
This was hard to talk about. It had actually been a tiny little fact that had unnerved her time and again. While Rafa had gone from bad to worse with first the infection and then the kidney problem, not getting better, not showing any signs of waking up, her own injury had healed just nicely. It had seemed incredibly unfair to her at the moment and judging from her brother’s sympathetic reaction it seemed he somehow knew or could at least relate to how she felt. As it turned out the sympathy had nothing to do with understanding though. It was guilt – a reaction she truly couldn’t fathom.  
   
“I'm sorry...”  
   
“What for? This isn't your fault and there's nothing you could have done.”  
   
“But you were hurt and I wasn't there for you...”  
   
His response sounded so monumentally wrong to her that she had to hide back an exasperated laugh. Calling her hurt in comparison to his own injuries was a cruel joke and the fact that he actually managed to feel bad about not being there for her even though he knew his own life had been in severe danger, struck her to the core. She could have allowed her irritation at his display of ignorance to his own well-being to win the better of her. But she didn’t. Fighting with him to finally get him out of his funk had been hard enough. She felt no need for a repeat. What she did feel was simply happy and grateful and that was exactly the sentiment she wanted to relay to her brother.   
   
“You're here now. That's more I dared hope for from time to time to be honest. You were right you know. We should be grateful, all of us.”


	31. Appreciation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no words for yesterday and the way USO ended for Rafa.  
> I'm just sad... and frustrated.  
> Bad stuff shouldn't happen to nice people... Not in RL anyway...
> 
> Not sure this one is helpful in cheering anyone up.  
> Hope you like it anyway
> 
> <>°O°<>

*4 days later – Monday*  
   
Porto Cristo  
   
Maribel was aware that she probably spend a little too much time with her family – and her brother especially – at the moment. But it were special circumstances and today she had an article in a sports magazine to show Rafa. It had been one of her colleagues who had given the magazine to her and she had been grateful for the chance it presented. She couldn’t wait to return to Porto Cristo to present her brother with the article and had actually taken half a day off to not have to wait until the evening to show it to him.  
   
She had found him dozed off on the couch in the living room, apparently after having taken another swim in the pool. At least she assumed that was why his hair was still wet. She hadn’t had the heart to wake him especially as every medical professional who had been in any way involved in Rafa’s recovery had told them time and again sleep was the very best thing the body could get in order to recuperate. As excited as she had been about getting her brother to read the article, interrupting his sleep hadn’t been worth it in her book.  
   
She settled herself in the kitchen and prepared a light lunch to pass the time, waiting for her brother to wake up. She was done and ready to get the dishes out when she heard soft whimpering from the adjacent living room. Immediately alarmed, she hurried to check on Rafa but found he had already woken up and had sat up on the couch. He looked a little paler and sweatier than the last time she had checked on him but there were no obvious signs of pain or distress. Surprise was shining in his eyes and something she could only describe as embarrassment when he detected her.  
   
“Mari…”  
   
“Sorry for barging in here like this. I took the afternoon off and decided to come by. Are you okay?”  
   
“Bad dream. It happens.”  
   
She had expected an answer like that but it didn’t help feel any better about the revelation. The entire family had known that there had to be some sort of mental repercussion to what had happened to Rafa sooner or later. Nightmares seemed to be unavoidable and pretty much harmless given what other aspects of PTSD there were… She was pretty sure her brother didn’t want to talk about this though. She could have pushed but she decided to try and cheer him up instead.  
   
“I might have something to chase them away. I made lunch. And there’s something I wanted to show you. Come on.”  
   
She put the bowl of salad down in front of him as soon as Rafa settled down at the table, obviously still a little drowsy from being woken from his sleep by that nightmare. There didn’t seem to be a lot of appetite either because so far all he had done was to look at the offered meal. Instead of urging him to eat already, Maribel pushed the opened magazine with the article on the top page across the table for him to read. A small apprehensive smile appeared on his lips at the sight.  
   
“The last time somebody shoved a piece of paper at me for me to look at, it wasn’t exactly inspiring.”  
   
“This one’s different. I promise.”  
   
As his sister had taken it upon herself to come here just to bring him the magazine, Rafa couldn’t very well refuse. Looking down he found an article about the ATP – about him – as he expected. The article was titled ‘Two months after Roland Garros final – how are they now?’ It had been written before the tournament in Toronto, that had actually come to a close a day ago, had started.  
   
_We are in Toronto today where the Masters tournament is about to start on Monday. It’s a fine summer evening on the tournament grounds as an exciting week is about to start for the competitors but the atmosphere can only be described as subdued. It’s due to the fact that one of the top seeds for this tournament and a fixture on the tour for more than a decade now, is not here to compete. We speak of course of Rafa Nadal, who sustained life threatening injuries while attacked by a yet unknown assailant during the French Open final, and is still recuperating from his injuries, therefor not able to play_  
  
_The events of that Sunday afternoon in Paris have not been forgotten and it seems a lot of Nadal’s fellow players are still reeling from it. Counseling session have been offered to all those of the players on the ATP tour, who felt in need of it and from what we hear the resonance has been overwhelming. Although a lot of them weren’t even in Paris at the time, it seems the vicious attack on one of their own still has left the entire community of players pretty rattled._  
  
_We spoke with ATP player’s council president and vice-president Novak Djokovic and Andy Murray respectively, with fellow Spanish player Fernando Verdasco and with tournament’s  top seeded Roger Federer. Right away it was clear to see that their reaction was a unified one. All of them are still shaken from the events in Paris and all of them wish a speedy recovery and a quick return to the tour to Nadal._  
  
_Murray was full of praise for the Spanish champion and both full of horror and  sympathy to the cruelties fate had bestowed upon Nadal._  
  
_‘Even now most of us still have a hard time understanding what happened. It’s difficult to wrap ones head around the fact that a fellow player has been attacked like this and has been injured so horribly. It’s especially unfair that it’s someone like Rafa. He’s such a nice guy. Always friendly and patient with the fans, always fair and respectful with his opponents no matter if he wins or looses, always willing to offer an open ear and a piece of advice if asked for it… A great human being on and off the court. He certainly didn’t deserve something like this happening to him.’_  
  
_Player’s council president Djokovic who  – in tandem with Murray – initiated the offer for counseling to the ATP players is just as complementary but focuses his answer on the near future. To him there is little doubt about Nadal’s return._  
  
_‘Of course we don’t know anything for certain and ultimately it’s his decision if he returns or not. I think a lot of us would simply call it quits after going through something like this. Not just physically but mentally as well. I’m sure it’s extremely tough but it would be a great loss and a damn shame if Rafa decided not to return. I for my part am absolutely sure we’ll see a comeback in the very near future. I would both applaud and admire that decision. Rafa is an integral part of what we do here every day and we’d be elated to have him back.’_  
  
_Fellow Davis Cup participant Verdasco who is also befriended with Nadal has a more passionate reaction for us. Just like the others he’s full of praise and has high hopes for Nadal’s return._  
  
_‘We can’t wait to have him back here with us. We miss him. It’s definitely not the same without him… Of course we don’t know the extent of the injuries and it really is none of our business but if it’s at all possible for him to be well enough to compete again, I’m sure he will do everything in his power to get back into shape and make a comeback on the tour. Sooner rather than later. That’s just who he is. Giving up is not something he does.'_  
  
_Roger Federer – who played an integral part in the administration of first aid after the attack on Nadal – seems to still have a hard time dealing with the event’s of the Roland Garros final. It’s no surprise given his close proximity to the events._  
  
_‘What happened in Paris was a nightmare. We’re all very glad Rafa managed to fight his way through and come out on top. Honestly I think it was to be expected and I think he will be back with us as soon as he physically can. I’m very much looking forward to that day. It’s just not the same without him.’_  
  
_Asked about his involvement within the critical first minutes after the attack and his attempt at first aid that eventually helped to get Nadal to a hospital just in time, Federer is both very reluctant and humble._  
  
_‘I didn’t do anything special. Anyone else who would have been there with him would have helped just the same. I’m no savior or hero. The doctor’s deserve the credit for that.’_  
  
_The tour moves on to Cincinnati from here on out and it’s just a couple of weeks to the start of the US Open. It seems like a great stage for a comeback but we know nothing for sure. Information is scarce about Nadal’s overall progression with the recovery process. What we do know is that he’s back home on Mallorca and apparently doing well. It remains to be seen when he will return to the ATP tour. One thing everyone we asked – players, fans and officials alike – is absolutely sure about is that he will._  
  
_We will keep our fingers crossed and wish him a speedy recovery..._  
  
Rafa needed a second read of the article before he could fully comprehend the enormity of the words. He read slower the second time around, allowing the amount of complimentary things being said, the sheer sympathy for his situation and the vehemence for their wish of his return sink in. It felt good, there was no doubt about that. Ever since he had woken up in Paris after the attack for the first time, he had never felt as sure of himself as he did right in this moment. Maribel pulled him from his thoughts, her tone of voice cheeky and amused.  
   
“You’re blushing.”  
   
“Am not!”  
   
It was a perfect opportunity to engage in some childish banter but Maribel decided against it. She simply grinned and – leaving her brother too surprised to react – got up and around the table and pulled Rafa into a quick tight hug. She let go as she could feel him tense and hide back a wince. Obviously she had been a little overenthusiastic and had probably caused him to put too much strain on the healing surgical incisions. Instead of an apology – which probably would have ended in awkward silence - she smiled at him, tapping on the article.  
   
“See. So much for them not wanting you back. They all miss you and hope for you to return. Even Roger.”  
   
Rafa had a hard time not to wince at the mention of the Swiss. Both Roger’s involvement in the article and his words had surprised him a little but then again the Swiss couldn’t exactly admit to his involvement in Rafa’s injury in a news piece. He was smarter than that. But Maribel was right about the rest of the players on tour wanting him back. And after that heart to heart they had just a couple of days ago, the decision he had dreaded to make had been so much easier. Right now he felt like achieving it was not just some far fetched dream anymore. All he had to do was get started and as she was so readily available and enthusiastic, Rafa decided to enlist Maribel’s help right there and then.  
   
“Can I ask a favor”  
   
“Sure.”  
   
“Could you take me back with you to Manacor?”  
   
“Why?”  
   
“I want to visit the academy...”  
   
“Why?”  
   
“Stop playing dumb with me. You know why.”  
   
Rafa hadn’t actually said it but he didn’t have to. A wide grin spread on Maribel’s face, one she had no chance to hide even if she would have wanted to. Not that she did. She was happy. Her brother wanted to step back onto a tennis court for the first time since the attack. Maribel knew she probably looked like an idiot smiling at him so brightly. But she didn’t care. A serious after thought ruined her happiness to some degree though.  
   
”Are you sure you're ready? Don’t you need to talk to the physio about it first? There's no need to push yourself too hard...”  
   
“You were the one who told me to get my butt into gear.”  
   
“I did say that. I also told you to take care. Please don't do anything that could set you back. Please?”  
   
“I'm not. I talked to the physio. Only in theory so far, but he thinks it's okay, as long as I don't overexert myself. He said I shouldn't do anything more than a little bit of light hitting. But it's better than nothing, don't you think?”  
   
“I think it’s great.”


	32. As it should be

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still not feeling exactly happy with this whole USO mess.  
> But I'm getting there.  
> And to cheer us all up, today I have a fluffy chapter full of sibling interaction for you.  
> It's my favorite by far.
> 
> Hope you like it as well
> 
> <>°O°<>

They had waited until the early evening for the sun to go down and the temperatures to get a little bit more bearable before Maribel had taken her brother along. She wasn’t completely sure but this had to be his first time ever leaving the house since he had returned back home from Barcelona. If it bothered him or he had an issue with leaving the comfort and relative safety of the house, he didn't let it show.  
   
It was a short drive to the tennis academy in Manacor and only upon their arrival did Maribel realize there would probably be nobody there equipped and ready to actually act as a practice partner for her brother. Rafa couldn't very well play on his own. Somehow neither of them had thought about that. She simply hoped for somebody to be around that Rafa knew and trusted enough to actually do this.  
   
However the training center seemed all but deserted upon their arrival. Given the warm weather it was simply too early or too late – depending on ones point of view – to expect much of anything going on. Maribel hated the idea to disappoint her brother. After all it was the first time since his return home, Rafa had actually wanted to come here and the last thing she wanted to do was to quell his enthusiasm.  
   
He had changed from his washed out indoor clothes into a more appropriate attire and had even packed a bag to take a long. He was both prepared and motivated. But he obviously hadn't thought about the lack of training partner either. Or more precisely he had but hadn't let her in on it. She found out why that was the soon she pointed out the obvious lack of anyone around qualified to help him out with his desire to be back on a tennis court and get a chance for his first session of practice in over two months. And she really didn't like where this was going...  
   
“You’ll need a decent practice partner.”  
   
“How about you?”  
   
“I may be a lot of things but I'm not equipped to train with you.”  
   
“It’s not practice, Mari. It’s a chance to get a feel for it again. Come on.”  
   
“Not in a million years.”  
   
“Please?”  
   
She hated that pleading tone of voice and puppy dog expression he used, especially because it was working. She didn't want to do this, not really, not even for him but the way he acted made it almost impossible to say no. After all he had been so excited to come here and she had been the one to put him back on the path in the first place. It was only fair she helped him out now but the simple fact remained that she didn't want to. Not like this anyway. Maribel tried a different approach to get out of any involvement in this instead, one that was a little more practical.  
   
“I don't have any clothes...”  
   
“We can remedy that.”  
   
Rafa was grinning along with the words and started rummaging through the bag he had packed before they had driven here and that was now placed on the one bench that was situated on the court they had chosen. He had towels and water and sweatbands in there, which wasn't exactly a surprise and all useful items to have handy. But there was also a set of Maribel's own clothes that had been somewhere at the house presumably. He had known right along that he would have to convince her and this was just the last piece in the puzzle. She couldn't help but feel a little like she had been taken advantage of.  
   
“You brought a set of my sports clothes?!”  
   
“I needed a practice partner.”  
   
“Alright fine. Let me get changed.”  
   
She relented, knowing full well that this argument would probably go on until she did anyway... or until it got too dark to try to play. In the end it wasn't a difficult decision to make. Her brother wanted this, needed this and above all other things she had sworn to herself to be there for him all the way, now that Rafa had finally rediscovered both his determination and his passion for the sport. She would do this for him, even if she would look like an idiot doing it.  
   
She still felt like that complete idiot when her brother pushed one of his rackets into her hands after she had returned from changing into the more comfortable set of clothes. It wasn't exactly the truth but she felt like she had never even been on a tennis court before in her entire life. She wasn't even that bad. It was nothing compared to what her brother could do with a ball and a racket but on an amateur level her skills were actually pretty decent. It didn't change anything about the way she felt though. Even now that she had taken the racket and a set of balls to the unoccupied side of the court she felt a strong sense of self-awareness. She turned to look at Rafa, trying to plead her way out of this one last time.  
   
“I’ll make a fool of myself!”  
   
“Then we’ll both be fools.”  
   
“You do this professionally.”  
   
“Not for a while now. It’s not as if I can simply pick up where I left off. Not after two months without any practice.”  
   
He wasn't wrong of course but Maribel still felt like it was a very, very weak comparison. Maybe this wasn't like riding a bike where you never forgot the essentials but still even with two months without any tennis at all in his life, his skill set was still a hell of a lot above hers. But she was here, readily available to play along – in every sense of the word – and if this ended in a complete disaster she wasn't the one to blame. After all she had been his choice.  
   
“Don’t complain to me if you end up picking up the balls from the adjacent court!”  
   
“You’ll do fine, Mari. Besides if you mishit, you get to pick up the ball.”  
   
“Dork.”  
   
“Chicken.”  
   
Instead of continuing the silly teasing that was going back and forth between them, Maribel decided on a more physical reaction to finally shut her brother up. She picked up one of the balls and hit it directly at him. She regretted the action as soon as she send the ball flying. It hadn't been a very strong hit but still she was immediately afraid she would accidentally hit him someplace that was still tender or would cause him to try to avoid the ball and hurt himself in the process due to some awkward sudden movement. Neither of those things happened though. He obviously hadn’t expected a reaction like that and his reflexes didn’t kick in fast enough. He made no attempt to step aside or at least try to hit the ball back and the little yellow object hit him on the upper left thigh. It took another moment for him to react and  look at her across the net, staring at his sister in utter disbelief. As he was simply perplexed but definitely not hurt in any way, her worry dissipated.  
   
“Ouch… You hit me!”  
   
“You deserved it!”  
   
They engaged in a staring contest for about 15 seconds before Rafa broke eye contact first and started laughing. Maribel grinned first, trying to keep her composure but couldn't help but to join in. Laughing like idiots definitely was strenuous on the healing surgical incisions, judging from the way her brother left a protective hand on them but he didn’t seem to mind and Maribel forced herself not to worry about him. If the physio was okay with him being here, she probably should be too. It took them a little while but finally they both recovered their composure and Maribel tried hard to actually get to what they had come here to do in the first place.  
   
“Let’s try this again and maybe this time you can not tease me and I will actually put the ball in play properly.”  
   
“Sounds good to me.”  
   
The whole thing worked out surprisingly well. Though Maribel was all too aware of the fact that it really couldn’t be called tennis. It was more a little bit of hitting the ball around just for exercise. But Rafa seemed both happy and sufficiently challenged, at least enough for him to concentrate on what he was doing and not engage in another set of banter and laughing. He looked serious and focused, a lot like she was used to seeing him under competitive conditions. It raised her own game considerably even if it was mainly to keep the ball in play instead of gaining any momentum – neither on her nor on his side. They were both so engrossed in what they were doing, neither one of them had realized so far that they were being watched.  
   
Toni and Carlos had agreed to meet at the academy to go through some of the finer points of what the immediate future held in store for Carlos in his capacity as coach, which was pretty much a redundant job description right now that Rafa wasn't able to participate in any professional competition at the moment. For Carlos it was mainly a chance for an informal get together to simply talk and maybe find out how Rafa was doing at the moment. Ever since he had told him about Roger and the letter, the younger man had not been in contact with him again…  
   
Neither one of them had expected anyone to be around, not at this hour. Which left them all the more perplexed when they not only had heard the tell tale sounds of somebody practicing on one of the courts but it had become obvious very quickly that the voices and sounds carrying over to them, were all too familiar. The decision to walk over and take a look had been silently made and now they stood at an angle that left them able to see the court but didn’t disturb it’s two inhabitants. It certainly wasn’t beautiful to watch but Carlos couldn’t help but grin at the sight.  
   
“Isn't that a sight for sore eyes... Your nephew on a tennis court with a racket in his hands again.”  
   
“It is, isn't it. Just as it should be.”  
   
“Not that either one of them could win any trophies like that. Or make even a single point in a professional game for that matter...”  
   
There was a certain uneasiness to the way Carlos stated the obvious fact and he hadn’t even intended for it to be there. He wasn’t sure what exactly he had expected of Rafa After weeks of hospitalization, more than a month of not being able to use his legs properly and the sheer enormity of the injuries he was still recuperating from, a certain drop in performance simply had to be expected. And Maribel wasn't exactly an expert hitting partner for Rafa either. Toni seemed to think exactly the same thing and was a lot more forgiving in his assessment.  
   
“It’s his very first try at this in nine weeks and he’s still recovering both strength and stamina. Give it time.”  
   
“Should we let them know we are here?”  
   
“No. Let's just leave them be. No need to pressure either one of them. Give the boy a chance to rediscover his love and passion for the game. After all we came here to talk not spy on them, did we not?”  
   
Their secret spectators had come and gone without either of the two siblings noticing. Maribel seemed grimly determined not to look like a complete idiot doing this and Rafa himself had to keep all of his focus on the way he moved, carefully avoiding to strain certain parts of his body too much and basically having to relearn certain things that had come naturally just two months ago and now felt completely foreign to him. But as strange as it felt, so far the whole idea of coming here had been an excellent one as far as he was concerned.  
   
Rafa had felt exhaustion growing inside of him after about 15 minutes but had refused to let it show or act on it. Now another ten minutes had passed and both his legs and lungs were burning. It was frustrating to feel how easily he tired even after something simple as this but he knew that to overdo it and push himself beyond his very limited range was a bad idea. On top if his lungs and legs, his scars had started throbbing and the hand holding the racket was giving him trouble as well. Letting the next ball Mari put back in play go past him, he simply stopped and walked over to the bench where the bag full of towels and water bottles was.  
   
Maribel dropped down next to him, taking one of the offered bottles of water from him. This had been… nice. She found no other word for it. To some extent it was also alarming how easily Rafa had tired. But then again he was nowhere near the level of both play and physicality he had been before the attack in Paris. All in all he seemed to be content and that was the main thing for her.  
   
Rafa hadn’t realized he had maybe overdone things just a tiny little bit until he settled down on the bench and allowed his body a chance to relax. Only now did the pain in his hand really register and he couldn't stop staring at the palm of it  where he could already see the reddish swelling of a blister forming at the very spot where the head of the racket had been sitting for the past 20 to 25 minutes. He couldn't help it, he had to grin at that and felt almost proud showing the site of irritation to his sister.  
   
“Look at that… It’ll blister.”  
   
“Why are you grinning like an idiot about this?! A blister is bad.”  
   
“I’m not used to this anymore.”  
   
“That was to be expected. It’s been more than two months… I still don’t understand why you’re grinning though?”  
   
“It feels good.”  
   
The statement seemed to have caught Maribel completely off guard given the way she stared at him like he had suddenly grown a second head. She was silent for a long moment and when she finally did respond she was being sarcastic. It didn't quell Rafa's sentiment of both joy and contempt though. He hurt all over and he was exhausted beyond measure but he was simply, genuinely happy.  
   
“The blister? I doubt that. Probably feels as painful as it looks.”  
   
“Not that. Being here. Holding a racket again. Practicing… if you can call it that. I’m sweaty, I’m exhausted, my muscles ache and my hand hurts… but I couldn’t be happier.”


	33. The counselor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi folks!  
> We're back with Roger in this chapter.  
> And I'm introducing an OC that hopefully doesn't come across as too flashy and constructed...  
> Anyway there is finally some progress on Roger's part as well in this chapter.
> 
> Hope you like it!
> 
> <>°O°<>

*At the same time*  
   
Cincinnati  
   
   
The plan had been set into motion and everything had fallen into place so perfectly, Mirka had actually silently applauded herself for it. She didn't really believe in that kind of stuff but even she could hardly ignore the fact that it seemed like fate's design the counselor that had been recommended to her actually lived in Cincinnati. She had talked to the woman the day before leaving Toronto and had told her what little she knew about what was bothering her husband so much he. They had agreed on a date and place and now all Mirka had to do was to get Roger to actually show up.   
   
There had been sort of an equilibrium within her husbands state of mind, leaving Mirka with just the tiniest amount of doubt if this was all necessary or maybe Roger had finally managed to find some stability in coping with the events from Paris. But then there had been the interview for the sports magazine and of course there had been another set-back when that journalist typing up the article about the tournament in Toronto in regard of Rafa Nadal's absence had come to talk to Roger.  
   
He had been distant and grumpy, not talking to her, not eating, not sleeping well and that had been the last bit of incentive she had needed. The only other option she had seen would have been to simply leave and go back home, having him fend for himself. She couldn't do that though, not yet, not without trying one last time to help him to get better. But she knew she would not be able to try again and again only to have him push her away and shut her out. Charlotte Montgomery was a a last resort... and if that didn't work out, she wasn't sure how to continue from there... The one thing she did know was that it wouldn't be pleasant for either of them.   
   
She hadn't told Roger ahead of time: it would have only ended in discussion and with him denying he even needed any help. Mirka had no desire to hear those blatant lies again. Even a blind man could see Roger was not okay. SO far the only one he had been able to fool was himself but that he managed brilliantly... So instead of talking to him about the appointment, she had simply pushed a business card into his hands upon their return to their hotel room after breakfast and had told him what to do with it. 

“I want you to see this woman.”  
   
“You want me to see another woman?”  
   
“Stop joking. There is nothing remotely amusing about my request. I want you to see her. Today at noon. No excuses, no staling.”

If he had hoped to achieve some sort of deflection by trying to be cheeky with her, Roger had been sorely mistaken. Mirka couldn't even express in words how frustrated she felt with him. She knew this needed to stop for both their sakes which made it so much easier for her to keep a harsh tone of voice. It was successful to some extent. At least her bitter tone was enough to get hom to actually look at the business card. She could see him frown and his face crease in irritation when his eyes skipped over the word “counselor” on the card. He waved the card at her, his tone of voice guarded and a little exasperated now.   
   
“What is this about? Who is this woman?”  
   
“She's a therapist, Roger. And you will go talk to her.”  
   
“You sound like that awful hag the player's council forced on me just two weeks ago. I don't need a therapist.”

Mirka didn't even try to hide back the sigh that had been threatening to escape. She was done listening to this, done hearing excuses, done being insulted with blatant lies and this excessive stubbornness that more often than not made her want to slap him. This wasn't a friendly discussion or a suggestion on her part and Roger needed to understand that. It was something entirely different. It was an ultimatum.  
   
“Yes you do. Desperately so. And you will do this or so help me god I will leave.”  
   
“Leave? Leave where?”  
   
“Anywhere! Anywhere where I don't have to watch you suffer through nightmares and flashbacks and mood swings, suffering in silence, stubbornly claiming there is nothing wrong with you and ruining both your marriage and your family in the process. I will not let you do that any longer. Not to me, not to the kids, not to yourself. Go see this woman!”

He hadn't believed her at first, had probably thought she was overreacting by default and that maybe it was just some very stupid joke. But her expression had stayed stern and unrelenting, fire burning in her eyes and her lips forming a thin line on her face. Roger needed a moment to realize his wife had probably never been more serious with him in her life. And she had threatened to leave him... He had to swallow hard at the realization and as much as he hated being forced into submission like this, it was still better than loosing the one thing that still meant something to him – his family. It had been an awful choice, but not a difficult one.

“Alright. I'll go.”

Two hours later he was standing in front of a multiple story residential building in a quiet street in downtown Cincinnati with a row of other, identical houses, none of them in any way conspicuous. He was pretty sure he was at the wrong place because these were definitely apartments. There wasn't a single store or office in sight and he was pretty sure there was no doctor's office residing in any of those houses. But the door to the house with the number he had been given was open and the names next to the doorbells showed one of them reading 'Montgomery”. Maybe he was right after all...

He walked up to the second floor where the woman's apartment was according to the doorbell and knocked. It took only a half a minute for her to answer and Roger was surprised at the sight in front of him. The woman that answered the door was maybe 25 years old, with brown eyes, her dark blonde hair tied up in a loose bun and wearing a washed out summer dress that had probably been red once but looked distinctively pink by now. 

The most striking feature about her though was the fact that her dress revealed the fact that her left leg ended just above the knee where a sophisticated prosthetic completed the rest of the leg. There were also very prominent scars on her lower right leg and on both of her upper arms. Roger couldn't help but stare, wondering what could have possibly happened to her. Of course that wasn't a question one asked on a first meeting. After all he didn't know this woman... But had she been uncomfortable with showing her disability. She probably would have chosen a different type of clothing. She greeted him with a smile, opening the door wide and making an inviting gesture.   
   
“Roger, right? Hi. I'm Charlotte. Come on in.”

“You are the therapist?”

“Counselor, but yeah.”  
   
Following her inside and closing the door behind him, he couldn't help but keep a close ey on her as she walked. There was no obvious signs the prosthetic was hindering her in any way. Would hse have been wearing a jeans, he probably wouldn't even have notice. There was no hitch to her step, only a barely detectable limp. Focusing his attention away from here, he found himself in a cluttered but cozy living room designed in a whole variation of clor schemes. This was definitely a private apartment. 

“This is not a doctor’s office.”  
   
“Which suits us just fine because I am no doctor and you don’t want to be a patient. Besides I always felt a less stiff and more casual surrounding helps one to relax. Wouldn’t you say? I like the room. It’s cozy.”  
   
“Miss Montgomery…”

Trying to get both her attention and his point across, Roger hoped to resolve this whole matter quickly. The younger woman was different from what he had expected and so far he liked her a lot better than that stiff hag the player's council had forced on him. But still he had no confidence that this... girl was qualified to help him. Seeing both the disability and the scarring he was pretty sure she was the one in need of help here... However he didn't get very far in explaining to her that agreeing to the appointment his wife had made had been nice of her but unnecessary. She stopped him before he even got a full sentence out.   
   
“Call me Charlotte. This is supposed to be an informal meeting after all.”  
   
“Is it? And here I was thinking you wanted to try and force me to tell you things I do not want to talk about.”  
   
“Well I am and I will but that doesn’t mean there’s any need for last names. I can be just as qualified as ‘Charlotte’ as I am as ‘Miss Montgomery’.”

Admitting so freely and cheekily to what she planned and sounding so damn sure of herself about getting him to open up to her, caught Roger completely off guard. The therapist – Charlotte he reminded himself – was not even remotely what he had expected. He wasn't sure that was a good thing though. But as she had been so generously open he decided to do the same for now, letting her in on what he thought of her.   
   
“You... are not what I expected.”  
   
“I get that a lot. Would you like a drink?”  
   
“No.”  
   
“Okay, no pleasantries then. Maybe you wanna sit? I’d feel stupid lounging around on the couch while you stand there like somebody bolted you to the floor.”  
   
He watched her drop to the couch and reluctantly decided on one of the chairs standing the farthest away from the couch to sit in. He had barely settled down in the comfortable armchair, staring at the younger woman as she shifted on the couch, trying to get comfortable herself and looking like this was some kind of a pajama party instead of a counseling session, when she picked up the conversation again. Her question however managed to first surprise him and then caused his anger to flare up.  
   
“Did you do it?”  
   
“Do what?”  
   
“Set Nadal up to get attacked.”  
   
“What?! No!”  
   
“That's the rumor.”  
   
“And that's all it is! A rumor. I helped, damn it! I saved him from bleeding to death!”  
   
Roger hadn't meant to be this irritated, especially not around a stranger but the accusation had hung heavily in the air and he couldn't just let it stand there like this. If she minded his loudness, the young woman didn't let it show. Actually she seemed perfectly relaxed and not taken aback in the slightest. There was a very small smile on her lips and when she reacted to his defensive words her voice was dripping with sarcasm.  
   
“And here I was thinking that qualified doctors, surgeons and nurses at the Parisian hospital saved him. Isn’t that what you said to a sports magazine like ten days ago? Just trying to be humble with the press, mh?”  
   
“No. It’s not… I didn't mean it like that. But I was there. And I helped. I helped and I did NOT have any part in the attack on him.”  
   
“Okay. Then why beat yourself up about it to the point you can't even sleep through the night any longer?”  
   
“You spoke to my wife...”

She actually rolled her eyes at him at the statement and Roger needed a moment to realize he had been stating the obvious. After all Mirka had been the one to arrange this appointment for him and she certainly hadn't just blindly picked a therapist without checking her credentials first. The two women had most definitely talked to one another but that didn't help to relax him. Whatever Mirka had told this young lady, it certainly hadn't shown a very good light on him...   
   
“Yes, obviously. After all she was the one who contacted me. She told me about how you're struggling though she didn't go into detail. I assume that's because she doesn't know all the details, does she?”  
   
“No.”  
   
“So what then? Why beat yourself up about all this if you feel like you saved a life? Why the nightmares and the panic attacks?”  
   
“I don't know.”

He received a huff and a disbelieving look in return, making him feel very much like he had just insulted the woman's intelligence. To a certain extend he had. Because she was a therapist – even if she called it differently – and he was trying to hide his feelings from her. Probably not the best idea and obviously one she saw through right away. She has sat up a little straighter on the couch, looking directly at him. Her scrutiny made him nervous.  
   
“Of course you know. Don't lie to me. I can see through it. So can your wife by the way. Feigning ignorance is frankly insulting to both of us. We're better than that. And of course you would know that if I talked to your wife she also told me about the letter...”  
   
“You know about that?”  
   
“I do. What I don't know is why it bothers you so much to the point of self destruction.”  
   
“I'm not...”

It had become an automatism with him that he objected whenever anybody told him he was coping badly, was being destructive or depressed. Of course most of the time it was his wife telling him and most of the time even she had given up on pointing the facts out to him. This woman now, she didn't know any better. But he never got a chance to disagree or correct her. He was interrupted before he had a chance to defend himself.  
   
“Semantics. Call it depression or an adverse reaction then. The point is this letter has been upsetting you for almost ten weeks now. Why?”  
   
“Because I didn't react to it!”  
   
Being so effectively shut down in his attempt to explain why he reacted as he did and that he felt his coping mechanism – albeit causing him nightmares and other problems – was a healthy one, made the angry response slip out before he had a chance to reign in his feelings. He had expected a content smile about the fact that she had managed to get him to admit to this but her reaction was a different one and to him it felt both strange and infuriating. 

“I don't get it. You didn't know until after. How were you supposed to react to it? Turn back time? Find a fairy and make a wish?”  
   
“This is not a joke!”  
   
“Of course it is. It makes no sense.”

Being called out on his own thought process and decision making, he couldn't help it but to defend himself and explain his reasoning further. He had come here with the distinct wish not to reveal anything of importance to this new therapist, to get this meeting over with never to return again. But as it turned out the younger woman was making that increasingly difficult for him, especially because he couldn't deny she had at least a hint of a point. From her uninvolved point of view he probably didn't make too much sense...   
   
“I could have known, okay! I could have known before but I chose to ignore the person bringing the news to me when there still had been time to do something, when there still had been a chance to stop it all. But I was tired and focused on other things and I pushed this aside and allowed it to play out in the process. I could have stopped it but I didn't!”  
   
“Stopped it how?”  
   
“Excuse me?!”  
   
“I’m just curious how this plays out in your mind and actually makes sense. So had you known, how would it have stopped anything?”  
   
“I would have told him! I would have warned him!”

Roger couldn't help but yell. He thought the answer was blatantly obvious, even to someone who barely knew the facts and hadn't been there at the time like this insufferable woman. He hadn't struck him as particularly stupid. Actually he had felt quite the opposite way about her. But these kinds of questions only showed how ignorant she was. If she minded being talked to this rudely however, she didn't let it show. Actually she seemed sort of amused, smiling at him lightly.   
   
“And then what? He would have refrained from playing the final of a Grand Slam because you claim he was in danger? Because some deranged idiot who adores you and hates him wrote a random letter?”  
   
“Yes!”  
   
“You don’t really believe that.”

That caught him completely off guard. He had no idea why she would say such a thing. Of course this was what he believed... Her words echoed in his head, her tone of voice making him second guess his own reasoning. He had to admit she wasn't entirely wrong. Looking at this from a completely objective point if view, maybe it wouldn't have been that easy to convince Rafa or anyone of his team for that matter of the urgent threat the letter had presented... But that wasn't the only thing that had him believe he could have done better. After all he wasn't alone in his believe that things could have been different of only he had acted sooner.   
   
“I… They said it was my fault…”  
   
“Who did?”  
   
“His trainer.”

His answer made her laugh and this time it was his turn to stare at her, unable to commune how offended he felt at her reaction. She was being purposefully rude, probably to get him to come out of his shell, tear down the carefully constructed walls of the last weeks and get him to admit to his problems and feelings. But it turned out it was nothing like that. It was no ploy. She actually had a legitimate problem with his reasoning.   
   
“Let me guess. At a very trying time for the man, while he was probably worried sick and sleep deprived and emotionally raw and completely overwhelmed with an awful situation, you forced that letter on him, feigning ignorance to it’s existence prior to the final. And you really believe he was thinking straight when he accused you? You think he was objective and detached? Really?”  
   
“Probably not…”  
   
“So, back to my original question – why beat yourself up over this?”  
   
He was running out of deflective things to say Roger suddenly realized. Of course he still felt guilty, he still felt he could have helped and avoided all that had happened in Paris if only he had known about the letter sooner. One logic argument alone couldn't destroy or change how he felt about that. But his reasoning ran deeper and that was something he barely ever had allowed to admit even to himself. Here with Charlotte now he could.   
   
“Because his trainer isn’t the only one. Rafa thinks so too.”  
   
“How do you know that? Have you talked to him about it?”  
   
“No. That’s just it though. He never called, never texted, never once tried to contact me since the… since his injury.”

Her look was more sympathetic now but there was still a hint of amusement in her eyes. Obviously she had all the fact better arranged than he had and had a way wider perspective on the matter. Than again she wasn't limited by her own pain, worries and insecurities. Seeing things a little more clearly came easier to her and it helped Roger widen his own perspective as well.  
   
“Has it ever crossed your mind that maybe he has bigger things on his plate right now?”  
   
“Maybe. But I don’t know for sure, do I? So I keep feeling like I failed him. Because I do not know.”  
   
“You just have to ask him then. From everything I gathered the opportunity will present itself sooner or later.”  
   
“If he actually wants to talk to me…”

Roger didn't look at Charlotte and muttered the response more to himself than to her. She had picked up on it though and out of the corner of his eyes he believed to see her shrug. He looked up again just in time to see her finish the motion. And as if that hadn't been surprise enough, her answer surprised him all the more.   
   
“It’s not about what he wants. At least not from where I’m standing. I’m supposed to help you deal with what you experienced and get better. If that means talking to Nadal, so be it.”  
   
“Are you telling me to ignore both his wishes and his feelings in order for me to feel better?”  
   
“No. I’m telling you what I think would be the best way to get over this. What you do with my advice is your decision.”  
   
He needed a moment to digest that simple piece of information. For the first time in weeks somebody was talking to him with utter disregard to the delicacy of the situation and the fragility of his own mind. But he was still left with the choice. This woman didn't try to force anything on him, she didn't try to get him to agree or take her opinion for his own. It was his decision to make and all she did was lend perspective. She was definitely different from the ATP mandated therapist but he still could – not for the life of him – say that he liked being here or felt the need for it. But it wasn't exactly awful. Still he wondered when this rather confrontational conversation would eventually turn into a therapy session and couldn't help his own sarcastic tone of voice when he inquired after it. 

“So what now? We talk about my feelings? We talk about Paris?”  
   
“I usually don’t do the in depths stuff in a first session. We can if you want though. My next appointment is not for another two hours. I would prefer a chance for lunch and laundry though.”  
   
She was so matter of factly about her other chores, about the fact her life didn't revolve around this meeting that Roger couldn't help but smile. He admitted it was clever the way she reacted to his sarcasm. This was she had put the ball in his court, leaving it up to him to decide if he wanted a second meeting or not. The woman was insufferable, viciously cynical, so honest with him it was actually quite blunt and had a way of getting to the core of things that was pretty damn upsetting. But he had to admit he liked her style and for the first time since Mirka had suggested he needed a therapist, he actually felt like maybe she was right. Admitting to it however was hard and he was reluctant to do it. But even as his conflicting emotions caused him to halt while making his wishes known, for the first time in weeks Roger was absolutely sure to be doing the right thing.  
   
“Could I… Would you agree to another appointment? Maybe sometime this week?”  
   
“Sure thing.”


	34. Mending what is broken

Mirka had both anxiously awaited and dreaded her husbands return from his scheduled appointment. She knew that if things turned out the way she expected them to and Roger would have managed to pass up on yet another opportunity to ask for help and let somebody who was professionally trained give him some advice and perspective on how unwell he truly was, she would have to make a decision. Actually the decision was already made she just needed to find the strength and courage to go through with it. If this didn't work out, leaving him – if only for a time – was the only thing she could still think of to use as a bargaining chip... And she felt awful about it.  
   
She had already been very close to telling him that she wouldn’t join him in his travels to the US but then that invite for mandatory counseling had come around and she had felt she needed to be there in order to make sure he went there. Of course that hadn't worked out quite as planned and she had been disappointed with him after that, which made it so much harder to be around one another. She simply couldn't take much of any more of this. She needed her husband back, she needed the man back Roger had been before the Roland Garros final...  
   
She winced and almost jumped when she heard the telltale clicking of the hotel room door that announced somebody using the key card. Here it was then – the moment of truth. She turned to face the door and her husband and was taken completely by surprise. The door hadn't even fully closed behind him, when he was right there with her with a couple of quick strides and pulled her into a bone crushing hug only to let go a little seconds later just enough to give himself room to kiss her. He was smiling when he pulled back, the widest and happiest smile she had seen on him in weeks.  
   
“Let’s have dinner.”  
   
“O... Okay. I'll get the menus for room service.”  
   
Room service had been a fixture ever since the overseas part of the ATP tour started. Roger had taken a liking to the confines of their hotel room and she didn't expect tonight to be any different. She tried to pull out of his embrace to get to the menus that were on a table by the door but he wouldn't let go of her. He kissed her again instead and – upon realizing what she had been about to do – shook his head gently.  
   
“No, I mean go out. Get dressed up, pick out a nice restaurant and have a good meal. Just you and me, no room service, no paper napkins, no TV in the background.”  
   
“Like a date?”  
   
“Yes. Let’s go on a date. Dinner… and maybe a show afterwards.”  
   
Mirka couldn't help but frown at him. She gently freed herself from his hands that were still resting on the small of her back, looking at him closely for a long silent moment. She had no idea what had happened at the therapist's appointment but whatever it was, it showed amazing results. Hadn't she known better she would have believed time had reverted to before Paris and she finally had the version of Roger back she had been missing so much. She couldn't help her suspicion though. Somehow she had a hard time trusting this sudden change in her husband.  
   
“What has gotten into you?”  
   
“Can't a husband take his beautiful wife out and treat her to a fancy dinner?”  
   
A snide remark was on the tip of her tongue but she swallowed it. Whatever had possessed Roger to be this way – and she was absolutely sure it had something to do with the appointment with the therapist – she liked it. She silently applauded herself for a choice well done and simply accepted what to night had in store for her. If this was what the therapist could do after only one session, miracles were t be expected in the very immediate future. She smiled at him, pointing to the bathroom.  
   
“I'll have a shower and get dressed. I'll be half an hour.”  
   
It turned out to be 45 minutes until they were both ready to leave the room but Roger was still happy and smiley when they left, hand in hand for what felt like the first time in weeks. The restaurant Roger had in mind was within walking distance of the hotel. It was a fancy French restaurant and even though she had picked an elegant black dress Mirka still felt a little underdressed. Nobody from staff at the restaurant seemed to mind though and they were seated at a table by the window.  
   
It really felt good to be treated to something fancy like this and she needed to think long and hard when they had last done something like this. In all honesty she couldn’t remember... When their drinks were served and the server had brought the menus for them to chose from, she was no longer able to hide back her apprehension. As much as she enjoyed this... improved version of her husband, she simply didn't trust the sudden happiness. Giving him a long hard look over the table, she tried hard to get behind the smiley facade.  
   
“Why are we doing this, Roger.”  
   
“Because I love and appreciate you and you deserve this.”  
   
“And I didn’t in the last two months?”  
   
His face fell at her confrontational remark but only just a little. Roger had known from the start that his sudden good mood and drive to do something nice for his wife would be appreciated but not simply accepted without question. They both knew seeing the new therapist had helped but he still couldn’t tell her about the details – neither of the appointment nor of how he had felt before. He simply couldn’t but she needed to know that.  
   
“I know what you want to ask me. But I can’t, okay? I can’t talk to you about any of this.”  
   
“Why not.”  
   
“Because you care.”  
   
Mirka frowned at him in confusion, almost sure she had misheard him. What he said didn’t make any sense to her whatsoever. In her book it was a good thing that she cared. It made her better equipped to help him than some detached stranger with a medical degree but not an ounce of sympathy in him. She didn’t have to ask for an explanation though, it was given to her freely.  
   
“You are invested. You hurt when I have trouble dealing. You care about me and I can’t take that. I hate to know I cause you pain every time I have a nightmare or something even worse. I’m not shutting you out to hurt you, I’m shutting you out to protect you.”  
   
“You don’t have to.”  
   
“I know that. But I can’t help it. It’s like the nightmares. It just happens…”  
   
It was the very first time since Paris that he actually admitted to even having those godawful nightmares and Mirka felt like that was a step into the right direction. She didn’t like the fact that he kept things form her even if it was in order to protect her. But she could accept that. If this new therapist was helping him feel better, she could deal with a little bit of secrecy and not knowing. Somehow it still felt wrong to leave it up to a complete – albeit obviously competent – stranger to set her husband straight again.  
   
“Isn’t there anything I can do to help?”  
   
“You already did. You gave me this appointment with the counselor.”  
   
“I had hoped it would help but I wasn’t sure. Not even a little. Given what happened the last time you saw a therapist… I expected you to push that one away too.”  
   
Mirka was being as honest as she dared to be with him. She could tell him that she hadn’t held high hopes for this new attempt at getting Roger to see a therapist. What she could not tell him was which consequences had awaited him, had he actually declined this offer at help yet again. She had threatened him with leaving but she was pretty sure he hadn’t taken the matter seriously at the time. But now that the decision seemed no longer necessary, Mirka didn’t feel any need to dwell on it. She was just happy there was finally some progress and judging from her husband’s reaction she was not the only one. That ATP official had been very much correct when he told her that this particular therapist was different from the others…  
   
“The last one was forced on me.”  
   
“So was this one.”  
   
“This one is… different.”  
   
“Obviously, otherwise we wouldn’t be sitting here.”  
   
One of the servers approached the table to take their orders, effectively interrupting the flow of conversation. When he left, regret was written all over Roger’s face and it took Mirka a moment to place his apology in the right context. It seemed he realized only now how much he had pushed her out of his every day life and how little of a partnership and a family they had been over the course of the last weeks.  
   
“I’m sorry…”  
   
“Don’t be. Better late than never… But I do have to ask. What did this one do the other one couldn’t? Why are you suddenly so much… better?”  
   
“She gave me perspective.”  
   
“On what?”  
   
“On how little in control I actually was over this whole thing with Rafa. I still feel awful, I still feel guilty but… I don’t know… some of the things she said made a lot of sense and maybe, just maybe I could have handled all this a little better…”  
   
She didn’t dare tell him ‘I told you so’ not wanting to deter him from finally opening up to her even if it was just a little bit. He was glad the new therapist had been so helpful but she couldn’t help but wonder why it had needed a complete stranger for Roger to finally understand some things she had been telling him right from the start. She assumed it had been a completely different approach then hers – probably a less careful one… She was interrupted in her thoughts as Roger continued.  
   
“The damage is done now and I’ll probably continue to have bad days… and nights. But I think you were right. This woman – Charlotte – she can help.”  
   
“So you’ll be seeing her again then?”  
   
“In two days.”  
   
Even though she had expected a positive answer, Mirka was surprised at how soon Roger had decided on having another appointment with that woman. She wholeheartedly agreed with his decision though. From everything she had experienced since his return from seeing the therapist, that woman was a good and useful help for Roger. Mirka took a measured sip of her drink and couldn’t help the content smile spreading on her lips. It was probably too early and she was putting way too much stock in this but it seemed her husband was finally on the mend…  
   
“Good.”


	35. A stupid idea

Being back on that tennis court in Manacor had felt like finally, fully returning home. It had been a wonderful experience to return to something he knew inside and out, something he loved and felt passionate about. In retrospect Rafa could have kicked himself for not listening to Maribel sooner. Leave it to his sister to know what he needed better than he ever could… It was kind of ironic that she had been the one looking out for him. After all he was the big brother…  
   
She had not come with him again, had made it very clear that their impromptu hitting session was a one time thing but Rafa really didn’t mind. She had helped him get started and he was grateful to her for that. It was all he had needed at that moment and for the next day he had organized bot Carlos and Maymo to come to the academy and meet him for practice.  
   
Having somebody as a practice partner with a lot more professional experience to himself had both been better and a lot more daunting than the playful hitting session he and Maribel had the day before. Of course Carlos was going easy on him but the shot selection was a lot wider, the ball fast, the angles trickier and it had taken even less time on that second day for Rafa to feel his hand ache, his muscles burn and his breath becoming shorter.  
   
Still Carlos seemed very happy with the way things were going and Rafa was content about getting some semblance of practice either way. He hadn't expected to return back to the sport full force from one day to the other. That would have been wishful thinking. He needed time above all other things. And – as it seemed – he also needed adjustments up to a certain degree. Because there were a couple of things he simply couldn’t tolerate.  
   
Having anyone even close to standing at a position on court where he couldn’t fully see them was the main problem. He knew these were people he could trust and that would never mean him any harm but still not seeing them while on the court, knowing they were behind him doing god knows what had him on the edge of panic the first few times it had happened.  
   
He had been reluctant to tell them though and had finally resorted to using a little white lie. He had told them he didn’t want them there because after the long time away from practicing, he had a hard time focusing if they were fidgeting and moving around somewhere behind him. He had told them it was better for his concentration if they didn’t. They had stopped, the explanation either sufficient or the empathy large enough to know what his problem really was.  
   
Stamina was his other main problem at the moment. Half an hour of real, competition level practice was all he managed at the moment before a bone deep fatigue got the better of him. He was more prone to cramps and muscle strains than he had ever been even during the worst times of trying to recover from an injury. But then again he had not been able to make much use of his legs for almost a month. A little bit of adversity had to be expected.  
   
He had been to his first full check-up as well and that was not an experience he liked to think about too much. Instead of doing as Maribel had suggested and looking for a qualified doctor on Mallorca, he had allowed his parents to talk him into going back to Barcelona for the check-up. He had already been exhausted after two airports, a plane and a cab to even get there and then there had been a problem during the tests for the check-up...  
   
They had done the usual testing. Blood, ultrasound, x-rays and a contrast MRI… The MRI had turned into a problem though. It had been an adverse reaction that was very rare and that had never once happened to Rafa before. One moment everything had been fine and the next his heart had been racing in his chest and he had felt extremely dizzy and short of breath. The next thing he knew the world had tilted to the side and turned from gray to black for a moment. The next moment he had been on his back, one of the nurses supporting his legs and angling them upright to allow the blood flow to centralize and get him back to a more normal level of consciousness.  
   
They assumed he reacted badly to the contrast but couldn’t exactly determine why it had happened. His doctor had gone as far as calling it a fluke… The result however had been an additional day and night in the hospital yet again. They wanted to keep him to make sure the allergic reaction was the only adverse consequence from the MRI and to keep a close eye on him while the lone kidney flushed the contrast from his blood…  
   
The worst thing about it though had been the call to his parents. He had dreaded that phone call more than anything and had been very close to simply calling just Maribel or Toni and let them deal with the fallout. But he knew he couldn’t do that. Not after everything his parents had gone through since he had been attacked. They deserved better.  
   
It had been just as awful as he had expected. His mother had actually cried and then had commenced to ask half a dozen questions in rapid succession that he had no answer to. How had it happened? Could it happen again? What was the worst outcome for him? He had tried to calm her, tried to assure her he was fine but he wasn’t sure she believed him. It was to be expected though. The emotional wounds were all still pretty raw – like a deep cut that had barely scabbed over and was healing at a very slow pace… Having to tell her that he needed to stay at the hospital yet again – if only for observation – was like ripping that scab off of it, leaving it open and bleeding.  
   
Luckily it had truly been nothing more than a fluke. He hadn’t slept well during that one night in the hospital, obsessing over what the morning would bring, how he was supposed to explain all this to his family if his blood test showed no improvement, how long he would have to stay and what this would mean for his overall plans to get back on the tour. There had been no need for it. His blood test showed neither signs of the contrast nor of any excess toxins and he was allowed to leave the hospital with a follow up appointment in three months time to check up on everything yet again.  
   
He had gone home again, home to Mallorca, home to his family, back to the tennis courts in Manacor and he had been determined – now with the check up over and everything within the range of what the doctors had expected his recovery process to be – to push his way through and be back on the tour as soon as humanly possible. His team and family had been supportive of course, sometimes a little worried about him when determination tried to win over physical inability. But all in all he was on a good path.  
   
Everything had sort of fallen into place after that first day back at the academy in Manacor after his stint in the hospital in Barcelona He was back on the court where he should be. It couldn't exactly be called practicing at first. What he had done on his first afternoon back but it had quickly been building up to that. Rafa had adjusted his routine and on top of the appointments with his physio and an hour in the pool every day, he had scheduled at least another hour and a half at the academy to get some semblance of practice reintegrated in his every day life.  
   
That was how his life had been for the past two weeks. He knew he was nowhere near his former level of play, physicality or confidence but he had come a long way from those first days of wakefulness in Paris when he hadn't even been able to move his legs. He felt good about his progress, good about himself and above all he felt restless. He wanted a chance to put what he had been able to achieve to the test and in his opinion there was only one way to do that. He needed proper competitive circumstances.  
   
In regard of that the decision he had come up with had not been a difficult one. The one thing he still had to ask for now, was the support of the people around him. Maribel had been his first choice as a person to talk to. She wouldn’t come along, he knew that. She had work and couldn’t simply take off for two and a half weeks on short notice. But she had been his trusted confidante over the last couple of weeks and he wanted her opinion first.  
   
It had not been a favorable one, that one was easy to tell. She had laughed, had argued, had called him an idiot and irresponsible multiple times but finally she had relented. Then she had gone off to get herself a drink and had called Carlos to tell him he had to get over there right away. It sounded a lot like Maribel had been trying to find strength in numbers. Rafa certainly didn’t plan on allowing them to gang up on him and they definitely wouldn’t change his mind about this. Once they realized that, he was sure they would be supportive.  
   
Carlos had taken almost an hour to get to Porto Cristo and when he finally did show up and Rafa let him into the house, he looked anything but pleased. Obviously he had been in the middle of something important when Maribel had called him and had effectively managed to make it sound like an emergency. It seemed Carlos had reacted right away, had dropped everything and had come here to make sure everything was okay. Realizing there was no emergency at all his reaction was – understandably – sour.  
   
“This doesn’t look like an emergency to me… What is going on here? Why did I have to drive halfway across the damn island and skip out of a nice lunch by the sea with my family? What am I doing here?”  
   
“I want to go to New York.”  
   
Rafa didn't waste any time. He knew mincing words, showing reluctance or sugarcoating his decision would not win him any points with Carlos. Unfortunately things didn’t exactly go as planned because the mention of New York did not elicit an immediate reaction The older man didn't understand what exactly it was Rafa had been trying to tell him. Obviously the whole concept seemed so foreign to his friend and trainer after all this time, all he came up with was a display of rather surprised ignorance.  
   
“Why? And what for? Sightseeing?”  
   
Instead of a verbal response, there was that look of utter distaste on Rafa's face Carlos had seen so many times before – on double faults, on certain winners going wide, on unforced errors - and right now he was getting that same look like he had said something truly idiotic. But he really had no idea whatsoever why Rafa would want to go to New York. Seeing that look on his face however, realization started to dawn on him. And with it came utter and complete disbelief... and alarm.  
   
“No. No way!”  
   
“There seems to be some kind of misunderstanding here. This was not a request for permission. Let me try again. I WILL go to New York to compete at the US Open. Will you come with me?”  
   
“No!”  
   
Carlos reaction was passionate and way louder and harsher than he had intended. But to him this whole discussion was in vain. At least he seemed to have some entertainment value to himself because somewhere at the far end of the kitchen, sitting by herself, nursing a glass of wine and utterly undetected by Carlos as of yet Maribel was chuckling into her drink. She had been the one to call him here and dump this whole mess in his lap, having to tell an overeager Rafa that going to New York to actually compete – and at a Grand Slam no less – was a tremendously stupid idea. He couldn’t help but shoot her a sour, accusing look.  
   
“You! You put him up to this.”  
   
She looked up at him, eyes intentionally wide, facial expression utterly innocent and made a gesture pointing first at herself and then miming a halo at the top of her head, grinning at him. She was obviously more than just a little bit tipsy and Carlos needed a moment to realize that it had been her brother's decision that had driven her to seek some sort of comfort and relaxation... which she had found in a drink and the decision to enjoy the disaster unfolding in front of her. Carlos couldn't help but point an accusing finger at her.  
   
“You don't like this any more than I do!”  
   
“No. I really don't. But what can we do. I wanted my determined, hard-headed, stubborn brother back and that's what I got. Now we deal with the consequences. So please accept the decision made, don't waste any breath on trying to convince him otherwise because that's what I've been doing all afternoon long until I was blue in the face and for heaven's sake go with him. It's a stupid enough idea already. He can use all the support he can get.”  
   
“I'm right here, people...”  
   
Rafa’s somewhat amused and a little insulted interjection that he was right there with them, listening while they discussed how idiotic and potentially disastrous his decision might be, made Carlos refocus his attention on the younger man. Every instinct within him screamed at him to argue his point for as long as it took to finally convince Rafa and make him change his mind. One look at the younger man however was enough to destroy that plan. Carlos had rarely seen that much determination and he knew whatever he said or tried and no matter how good his reasoning, Rafa wouldn’t listen to him. His mind was already made up. Maybe Maribel was right. The one thing they could do was to support the decision in order to protect and help Rafa, even if they hated the idea of going back to competitive tennis this soon…  
   
“You really want to do this?”  
   
“Yes.”  
   
“No chance of changing your mind?”  
   
“No.”  
   
It was a simple answer and one that left no room for any argument. Maribel had already told him he could try discussing the matter until he was blue in the face, Rafa wouldn’t relent. Of course he could have made his distaste and dislike known by simply refusing to accompany the younger man. But Rafa didn’t need punishment for this premature decision, he needed support. Carlos allowed himself another moment to contemplate and finally let out a breath he hadn’t even been aware he was holding. It seemed there was only one way to handle this now…  
   
“I'll come with you.”


	36. Support

Cincinnati  
   
The past few days had almost been like a return to normal and Mirka had been both happy and a little proud of herself for finally finding the right approach, the right person to help Roger overcome what had happened in Paris. He was by no means okay, she knew that but there was no denying that he felt better. Today however was sort of a strange day, one she wasn’t sure Roger would handle well.  
   
It had all started with a pretty straight forward loss in the semi finals at the tournament. That in itself was not exactly devastating. Of course Roger wasn’t happy about it but losses happened. That was what the competition was all about. But it had also meant that it was time to leave Cincinnati and that meant Roger had to part ways with his new found therapist. So far they hadn’t talked about it but Mirka knew some kind of arrangement needed to be found to make sure the therapeutic effort would go on.  
   
And then there had been the other, stranger news of the day that related directly to Rafa Nadal. So far Mirka was pretty sure Roger didn’t know about it yet because the news had only hit the public after Roger’s press conference at the tournament, which meant nobody had been able to ask him for his opinion on the matter yet. She would have the dubious pleasure of telling him and somehow she wasn’t sure how he would handle it.  
   
When her husband finally returned from the tournament grounds about two hours after the loss of his match he seemed not exactly happy but at least content. It wasn’t what Mirka had expected and it made that much harder to talk to him about the news she had only just heard herself, fully aware that it was and probably always would be an uncomfortable topic for Roger.  
   
“He'll be at the US Open.”  
   
“Who?”  
   
“Roger, please. We both know who I'm talking about. Don't pretend you don't know.”  
   
“Rafa? Really? Are you sure?”  
   
Roger sounded mostly surprised at the news but there was a hint of concern to his tone of voice as well. He had always known that Rafa would be back. NO matter how devastating and bleak the news about his well-being had been at time, the very moment Rafa had left the hospital in Barcelona, Roger had been sure the Spaniard would be returning to the ATP tour. He had said as much in the interview with that sports magazine journalist.  
   
What he hadn’t expected however was the timing of it all. It seemed abundantly hasty and not very well thought of. Especially because the US Open were not some minor tournament in some small city. This was a Grand Slam, probably the one with the most media coverage of the whole calendar. It certainly wasn’t the perfect vicinity to ease back into the sport, the competition or the whole media attention for that matter. But he doubted his wife had made a mistake and Mirka in turn shrugged at his disbelief.  
   
“That's what his twitter account says.”  
   
“That can't be right. It's way too soon!”  
   
“That seems to be the general consensus. But it’s his call to make, don't you think?”  
   
Roger shook his head no at first but then seemed to reconsider the question. His wife wasn’t wrong. Of course this was Rafa’s decision and his alone but it seemed so blatantly wrong it was frustrating. Of course the younger man neither needed his input nor would he have valued it but still Roger didn’t like it. And somehow he was pretty sure he wasn’t the only one feeling that way. He had his doubts that this had been a decision that had been unified among the members of Rafa’s entourage or family for that matter.  
   
“Yes, but it's not like he will go to New York all on his own. What about his team, his family? Why wouldn't they stop him?!”  
   
“I don't know, Roger. I wasn't there. Why are you so worked up about this?”  
   
It was a tricky question and one he didn’t know how to answer without causing Mirka concern. The simple fact was that he felt responsible. He knew it was wrong and he was acutely aware that if Rafa knew how much Roger cared he probably would have been regarded with a raised eyebrow and a facial expression showing both distaste and surprise at the fact. But he couldn’t help it. After everything that had happened he wanted to be sure the other man was doing alright. Coming back to a tournament while still recuperating certainly didn’t put Roger’s mind at ease about Rafa’s well-being.  
   
He knew he was being stupid. He knew he shouldn’t concern himself with any of this and that he was being way out of line feeling like he had any say in what Rafa was doing or not doing anyway. The younger man certainly wouldn’t appreciate it but still the feelings of concern and uneasiness still stayed with Roger no matter how hard he tried to be objective and detached about all this. A slight tingling in the tip of his fingers told him his breathing was too fast and that in turn told him he was working himself into a mild panic attack… This was not what he had expected and he had no idea how to deal with it. Unfortunately his wife was the wrong person to include in the onslaught of emotion he tried hard to fight down again. He swallowed hard, giving her an apologetic look instead of an answer.  
   
“I... I need to speak to Charlotte.”

***  
   
Mirka had called Charlotte early in the afternoon once she was sure Roger had finished the appointment with her and she had been surprised when the other woman had actually agreed to meet her. She knew what she was doing was not fair to her husband and that she had no right to spy on him like this. She was also very much certain that she wouldn't get the information she wanted out of Charlotte. But the not knowing threatened to drive her crazy and she couldn't achieve anything and make herself feel better if she didn't try.

They had agreed to meet at Charlotte's apartment, which would be their first face to face. So far Mirka had spoken to the woman three times but never directly. Their contact had been limited to phone calls and she was a little nervous about seeing this woman that Roger had deemed 'different'. Just like her husband, Mirka didn't know about the prosthetic leg or the scars and was taken by surprise at the sight when Charlotte opened the door on her in a short sleeved shirt and washed out shorts. She gathered her composure, hoping not to let her surprise show when she stepped inside and took a close look at the interior of the apartment. Mirka couldn't help but smile. Roger might not have told her about the physical curiosities but he had told her about Charlotte's decorating style.  
   
“Roger was right. You have a strange decorative sense for something that’s supposed to be a therapist’s office…”  
   
“I’m not sure whether to feel flattered or offended.”  
   
“Neither. I’m just rambling. I’m sorry.”

Mirka tried for a smile but immediately realized she was failing at it miserably. She felt uncomfortable being here. Like an intruder and technically that was exactly what she was. She knew she shouldn't be here but heart had won over mind on this particular matter. She took a deep breath and could smell the strong aroma of the coffee that seemed to have been brewing in the adjacent kitchen. Charlotte picked up on it almost immediately. A soft grin spread on her face for just a moment as she remembered her duties as host.  
   
“Coffee?”  
   
“Please.”

“Come along then. I might even have some cookies left somewhere in the kitchen.”

They had settled at the kitchen table, which was cluttered with both medical journals and novels, both of them a cup of coffee in front of them and a plate of cookies between them. Mirka had been carefully sipping at her coffee for a while now, enjoying the strong aroma and still trying to find the right words to approach this delicate subject. She didn't have to though. Charlotte was first to speak.  
   
“So… you were sort of ominous on the phone… What did you come to talk to me about?”  
   
“It’s about Rogers impromptu appointment today and what lead up to it… I… I know I shouldn’t be doing this and I actually promised myself to just accept the secrecy and let this go… But I can’t, damn it! I need to know! I need to understand why the simple announcement that Rafa will be playing his first tournament since Paris is so upsetting for Roger. Tell me? Please?”

It took an agonizingly long time for Charlotte to look at her and finally react to the request. Mirka expected her to decline, half expected her to get angry with her and actually throw her out of the apartment. But neither of those things happened. It seemed the younger woman had simply taken her time to consider her next words carefully. Mirka had to remind herself yet again that Charlotte wasn't really a therapist. She was not obliged to any secrecy as a doctor would have been.  
   
“It’s pretty simple really. It’s fear of failing. Or more precisely fear of being forced to watch without being able to do anything. Roger fears Nadal will either get hurt or hurt himself with this. After all anyone who has ever even remotely been involved with the sport seems to think this return to the competitive circuit is way too soon.”  
   
“But this is neither Roger’s fault nor responsibility. Rafa is an adult and capable of his own decisions! Why can’t he just accept that?”  
   
“Because he does feel responsible. I don’t think that will ever change. He quite literally held Nadal’s life in his hands… How could he not be emotionally invested in this? Especially if he thinks it’s the wrong thing to do.”

Charlotte's explanation made sense to Mirka, she couldn't deny that. She didn't fully understand Roger's reasoning and she probably never would but she could relate to it. It still didn't answer her most pressing question though. If it had been logic and a clear headed answer Roger had been seeking, there had been no need to involve Charlotte in the first place. She could have done that just as well and claiming that this was about not wanting to hurt her was no argument in this case. This hadn't been about them or about Roger's feelings, it had been about Rafa for the most part. But still Roger had chosen Charlotte over her to talk to and that was something she simply couldn't wrap her mind around.  
   
“Why can’t he just talk to me?! I like you Charlotte, don’t get me wrong and I’m grateful for everything you have done for him so far. I also know that he loves and trusts me. He has shown me that time and again over the last few days especially since he finally accepted your help and comes to see you… But why won’t he talk to me?! I’m his wife, damn it! But every time a major conflict comes up in his life nowadays it seems he will come running to you…”  
   
“Because you couldn’t possibly understand.”  
   
“But I was there! All that chaos and mayhem and people getting hurt. I was there too!”  
   
“It’s different. … As I said - he very literally held another person’s life in his hands.”

Mirka had a hard time even acknowledging that fact. It seemed so abstract in her mind that Roger's actions had helped to safe a life... And Charlotte was right in that regard – she hadn't been there, she couldn't possibly understand. Not the way Charlotte obviously could. Mirka could only assume it had something to do with the prominent scars on the other woman's arms and the fact that she was missing part of a limb. Something had happened to Charlotte Montgomery, something obviously similar to what had happened in Paris and that was what made it so much easier for her to relate to what Roger was going through. If that was the only way to get her husband to open up to her though, Mirka gladly opted out of it. She sighed softly, not even trying to hide her frustration.  
   
“Maybe. Yes, okay you’re right it’s different … But why that obsession with the letter? Why the obsession with Rafa’s well being? Why blame himself? And why trust you over me?”  
   
“As far as I know he explained some of that to you. He doesn’t want to hurt you and talking about this… it’s painful for him and that in turn makes him believe it’s painful for you as well. Somehow I don’t see him being wrong about that.”  
   
“Probably not. But why this obsession with Rafa’s health?”  
   
“Guilt. I know it’s uncalled for but even logically knowing that he couldn’t have changed anything, knowing he was never in control, the feeling of guilt still lingers and I don’t think it will ever go away. Not as long as these two haven’t talked to one another.”

“You think that will actually help?”

Charlotte shrugged her shoulders in response and that managed to catch Mirka off guard and almost made her choke on her next sip of coffee. Charlotte was supposed to be a professional but apparently that didn't mean she had all the answer. It was somehow liberating and soothing to realize that even the therapist who had finally been able to help Roger didn't have all the answers.  
   
“I’m not sure if it will be helpful. There’s so much negative emotion involved with it… But if they somehow manage a useful, open-hearted dialogue, I believe it would put certain facts into perspective for Roger. You know, Nadal is some kind of saint in his book whenever he comes to think of the ‘what ifs’. In that scenario Nadal and his team always listen and always adjust accordingly.  
   
That’s what gets me the most. It’s insane really… Some guy writes a random letter full of deranged threats and Roger believes if he had told Nadal and his team about it they simply would have believed him. He doesn’t even for one second believe he would have been ignored or accused of gamesmanship or even laughed at and told not to take matters so seriously. He wholeheartedly believes it would have changed everything.  
   
And that is the problem of it all. Because in reality, I don’t think it would have changed anything. The threat presenting itself would have been  too bizarre and too random for a passionate athlete and his dedicated team to give up on a chance at a title just like that. They still would have played, Nadal still would have been attacked but this way around it would have been his fault, not Roger's.”  
   
“Neither one of them is at fault. It’s that lunatics fault who acted on his misguided beliefs.”

There was a vigorous nod from Charlotte in response to Mirka's little emotional outburst. There had only been three meeting between the therapist and her husband but obviously this particular topic was a point of discussion and disagreement between them, otherwise Charlotte wouldn't have reacted this strongly to it. She had a very simple and factual answer for her but it was frustrating and saddening all the same.  
   
“I know that. You know that. Roger sees it differently.”  
   
“So what do I do then? Just wait and hope he doesn’t unravel?”

Mirka couldn't help how sarcastic she sounded. This meeting had gone better than she had expected but still she didn't exactly feel better. Charlotte had been friendly and patient with her, giving her the answer she had sought. Unfortunately it weren't the answers she had wanted to hear... Charlotte gave her an open, emphatic smile in response to Mirkas obvious discomfort..  
   
“You keep being supportive and I will keep counseling though for the time being it will be via phone. And maybe both of us can try to give him just a tiny nudge in the right direction and make him go talk to Nadal now that he has a chance to. It will be good, probably for both of them. It’s a catharsis long in the making. They need this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I won't be home this weekend so there won't be another update until Monday.


	37. Farewell and Godspeed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back home and I have a new chapter for you.  
> It's the last one before the story continues in New York. 
> 
> Hope you like it :)
> 
> <>°O°<>

*Porto Cristo – two days before departure*  
   
“I want your boat.”  
   
The demand – which it most certainly was because there was no question to it – Maribel threw his way caught Rafa off guard, so much so he almost choked on the water he had just been drinking. Maribel had been at the house for lunch but given her strange request, Rafa was pretty sure it was just pretext. He had no idea what his sister was getting at but he was pretty sure he wouldn't like where she was going with this. He played along for the moment though.   
   
“Why... What for... Like as a present?”  
   
“No, you idiot. For tonight. I want it for tonight.”  
   
“What for?”  
   
“Because we're throwing you a surprise farewell party. So... SURPRISE!”  
   
There was a wide, excited grin on her face and a soft rosiness to her cheeks that made her look a little flushed. She was very obviously happy with the surprise she had sprung on him but Rafa didn't appreciate it. Surprises weren't exactly something he enjoyed. He liked a certain routine to his every day life and that desire had only grown ever since the attack on him in Paris. It was the main reason why he simply couldn't help the almost snide remark that he responded with. His sister howevr either didn't pick up on it or didn't mind.

“Are you drunk? You sound drunk...”  
   
“I’m happy, not drunk. Not yet anyway. But I will be. Tonight. Ridiculously so. And you, you're not getting any. Because you're still getting used to living with only one working kidney and are not allowed to. Your still recuperating but you're going to New York anyway trying to... to...”  
   
The words 'get yourself killed' had been on the tip of her tongue for the briefest of seconds and the moment the thought had consciously registered, it had felt like a hard kick to her gut. She felt guilty and she needed to think of something else to say quickly but her mind seemed to be blank all of a sudden. Of course her brother wasn't making matters any easier looking at her like she had grown a second head, raising an eyebrow and crossing his arms defensively.  
   
“To what?”  
   
“Be an idiot!”  
   
Her response was perfectly in line with her whole demeanor throughout the last couple of days. She hadn’t stopped for so much as a second to give him grief about his decision to go to the US Open but no matter how often she argued or teased him, he had not even once thought about changing his mind. He was dead set on doing this. His sister however hadn't been the only one to give him trouble. The overall reaction had not been a positive one. Neither his family, nor the rest of his team or the doctors had been to keen about the idea but they all seemed to realize that there was no talking him out of it.  
   
There had been reluctant support upon the realization that this decision had already been made without any of them and they were only duly informed. They were not excited about the prospect but they trusted his decision to be what he wanted and needed. Maribel – though vocal and blunt in her dislike – had been the most supportive of them all so far. She had helped him to get the house back in order, had done laundry, had been shopping for a couple of things he needed to take along and had even helped with the scheduling of both his departure and his travel plans. As it turned out she hadn’t stopped at that. Somehow she had still found a way to organize a party for him as well…  
   
Being completely honest with himself, Rafa didn’t like the idea of a farewell party. He hated even the thought of being put on the spot like that, especially if he ended up the only one sober on a boat full of people that were both drunk and unhappy with his decision. He assumed that had been Maribel’s intention from the start. A lighthearted and pain free way to punish him for a decision everyone else thought was either stupid or premature. Of course he could have stopped the whole thing by simply not giving in to her request bu somehow that seemed like a tremendously stupid idea.   
   
All that was expected of him that same evening was to get into some comfortable clothes to wear and have Maribel take him to the marina for them to take the yacht out to sea. It didn't turn out as bad as Rafa had expected. It were mainly friends, Maribel being the only family member there. He wouldn’t leave until the morning in two days and tomorrow Maribel and the rest of his family would be there for dinner at a restaurant in Porto Cristo. As his sister had put it, tonight was about the excessive, fun part of his farewell before disappearing off to New York.  
   
Fun however simply wouldn’t come to him. He had been uncomfortable with all the attention that had been put on his return to the tour already and a night out with a bunch of drunken people wasn’t his ideal for saying goodbye. But it wasn’t like he had any say in it anyway. This was all Maribel’s doing. He had tried the whole mingling and having fun thing mostly for her sake but it became excessively exhausting to talk about the same thing and explain the same reasoning over and over again. At some point during the evening, he had simply decided it was time for a quiet, private moment. But his absence didn’t exactly go unnoticed. It was Maribel's boyfriend who pointed it out to her first.  
   
“Where did our guest of honor disappear to? This is his party after all…”  
   
“Doesn’t really seem to matter, does it.”  
   
“That’s the alcohol. Which you insisted on having by the way. This could have been a nice, low key affair otherwise.”  
   
“Nothing is nice or low key about this. It’s a stupid decision so we do stupid things to celebrate it. Like getting drunk on a boat in the middle of the sea in the middle of the night.”  
   
“You should go find him. Before he decides to jump off and swim back to shore to get away from it all.”  
   
“That’s probably not a bad idea.”  
   
Maribel who had been enjoying both the company and the drinks and she wasn't exactly in the mood to stop. But her boyfriend had a point. After all this was Rafa' farewell party. It would have been a good idea for him to actually partake. But her brother seemed to have disappeared into thin air. This was a boat and there were only so many places he could have gone to. As she was sure he had probably felt uncomfortable, she aimed for the less occupied part of the yacht.   
   
She found him at the far end of the yacht, sitting at the railing, feet dangling above the water, staring off into the dark. Rafa either hadn't heard her coming or he didn't care for any company, which one it was Maribel couldn't tell. Seeing him like this her earlier tipsiness and the irritation she still felt about his decision suddenly evaporated. She stepped closer carefully but still managed to make him wince when she put a gentle hand on his shoulder. Seeing the forlorn expression on his face she couldn't help but be curious.  
   
“Second thoughts?”  
   
“Yes.”  
   
It was a simple statement but Rafa still managed to render her speechless with it. The last thing Maribel had expected from her brother were doubts, not after he had been so determined to go through with his plan to go to the US Open even against so many adverse reactions from family and friends. She couldn't help but feel responsible for this sudden crisis of faith. After all she had been one of his most vocal critics over the last couple of days. She dropped down next to him, settling comfortably and letting her legs swing back and forth.  
   
“You will be fine, Rafa. It's the right thing to do.”  
   
“You hate the idea. So do Carlos and Toni and pretty much everyone I talked to. Team, doctors, family - they all think it's too soon... They all think I’m making a colossal mistake, that I’m being way too stubborn for my own good. They think I have lost my mind...”  
   
“Well you are and you have... But it doesn't matter what we think. This is your choice. So what do you think?”  
   
“I'm... afraid.”  
   
“You're afraid of most anything.”  
   
Her cheeky remark at least managed to make him give up on staring off into the night and facing her instead.Rafa gave her a soft nudge in response to her teasing but didn’t engage in any further conversation. Maribel smiled at him hoping to coax him into reestablishing some of that believe and determination that had carried him through the last couple of days. With everything prepared and all travel plans made, this seemed about the worst time to second guess himself.  
   
“Alright, in all seriousness then. What is the worst that could happen?”  
   
She realized too late that it was a loaded question. Given what happened in Paris Rafa's threshold for imagining the worst had risen to monumental proportions. They both knew the answer to a worst case scenario was a repeat of the events in Paris. But Rafa was too worried about hurting his sister’s feelings to say something along the lines of somebody trying to kill him again. The other option was a lot more trivial but admittedly he had been worrying about that as well.  
   
“I could loose early.”  
   
“Which has happened to you before. So what's the big deal?”  
   
He shrugged his shoulders not sure how to answer that question. There were so many conflicting emotions racing through his mind, so many vague thoughts of fear and failing. It wasn't just one thing in particular that had left him doubting his decision but a lot of them. Then again Mari was right. The worst thing to happen at the last Grand Slam tournament of this year from a professional point of view was an early out... He had those before. He could deal with them.  
   
The problem was that the true answer to Mari's question was not about tennis though. It was about him, about his fears, his insecurities about the never ending doubt and uncertainty due to the fact that the police in Paris had never been able to find his attacker. The worst thing to happen was a repeat of Paris, his attacker returning to finish what he had started... It was a slim chance, Rafa knew that. Security would be tight, people would take extra care of him but it didn't help his anxiety.  
   
Here he was home and he had felt safe. This was a small island, a small town he lived in and a protective bubble of fenced houses and practice courts and a supportive family protecting him that had made him feel safe and sure of himself. None of that would be there when he was in New York. And – now with the decision made, the plan in motion and no way to turn back on it - that was what made it so hard to go.  
   
Then of course there was the additional strain of seeing Roger again for the first time after all these weeks. Rafa had thought about it a lot but he still hadn’t come up with a plan, a strategy to handle that particular situation. He still didn’t know the exact truth of Roger’s involvement in the attack on him and on some days he really didn’t want to. Then there were other moments in between he had to restrain himself from picking up the phone and simply ask Roger about it to have clarity once and for all. Seeing him again and reacting to that probably came down to how he felt on that day. It certainly didn’t quell his worries about the decision to go to New York.  
   
He didn't tell any of that to Maribel though. She would have understood, he was sure of that, but it would also have fueled her fire about not wanting him to go. She had been so helpful at putting his mind at ease just yet and he didn’t want that to change because she feared for him. Ultimately it was all up to him anyway because it came down to the very simple question if he was able to overcome his own fears and would be able to do what needed to be done in order to get back to the life he had before the attack. There was only one answer to that.  
   
“It’s not a big deal. I’ve been obsessing over this a little too much tonight I guess…”  
   
“So you'll go then?”  
   
“Yes. I'll go.”  
   
Maribel breathed an over the top sigh of relief and let herself drop down to the deck of the ship. It was all just playful teasing though. She was grinning up at him before she pushed herself up into a sitting position again, held onto the railing, got to her feet and held out a hand for Rafa to grab and get back up as well.  
   
“Good. Otherwise this whole farewell party would have been kind of unnecessary.”


	38. The last steps on a bumpy road

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off apologies to claire kang and for saying it would take a couple more chapters for Rafa and Roger to meet and talk.  
> They actually do meet in this chapter.  
> It's also the first chapter in a long time for both of them to appear in.  
> Changes in POV are indicated by '*#*'
> 
> Please, please, pretty please don't be too upset with the way things are going.  
> I definitely, one hundred percent promise a happy ending to it all :)
> 
> Hope you like it
> 
> (The bit of Spanish translates to "I told you")
> 
> <>°O°<>

*3 days later*  
   
New York  
   
So far being in New York had not turned out to be the triumphant experience Rafa had expected it to be. After months of being sidelined and effectively cut off from the whole commotion that always came with a tournament, he felt a little out of touch with it all. He hated being put on the spot like this, being the sole center of attention. Of course it was to be expected. He had been away for more than two months and people – albeit almost joyous about his return – were curious.   
   
It had started as soon as he had entered the departure terminal of Palma airport and even though he had known it was bound to be this way, he still had felt a little daunted and overwhelmed by all the attention. Unlike the last time when he had gone to Barcelona for the check up, people knew he would be there this time. It had been officially announced after all. And there had been people, lots and lots of people.   
   
There had been journalists of course, wanting a statement from him, wanting to know how he was doing, how far along his recovery was and if he was sure he felt up to all this. There had been fans, wanting to see him, wanting autographs and pictures, generally supportive and happy to have him back. And of course there had been a whole bunch of tourists and travelers that probably had a vague idea of who he was at best, but had been drawn to the commotion he had caused.  
   
It had only gotten worse when he had changed over at Heathrow airport and La Guardia had been the worst of it all. By the time he had reached the hotel and had locked the door to his room safely behind him, he had felt about ready to drop into bed and sleep for at least a week. The tournament hadn’t even started yet but getting here had been draining beyond any measure he had ever anticipated.  
   
He had been glad he was surrounded by a team that was sympathetic and supportive even if they had been reluctant to come here and didn’t agree with his decision in the first place. Rafa had spend the evening with Carlos and Maymo and despite their difference in opinion they had assured him that even as today had been overwhelmingly intense, it wouldn’t stay that way. It was simply the combination of  this being the first time in months people had a chance to interact and the fact that Rafa wasn’t really used to it anymore.   
   
They had agreed on a day off and it hadn’t been until Friday – two days before the official start of the tournament – that they had actually visited the grounds and had scheduled a first session of practice. Rafa was at the tournament site for less than two hours and by now he was ready and willing to admit that maybe both Carlos and his family had been right and it had all been too early.  
Practice hadn’t gone well. He had been nervous and preoccupied and quite frankly a little bit scared by the attention that was given to the simple act of hitting a ball back and forth. 

Rafa couldn’t help it. He hated people watching, people stopping by unannounced, people standing somewhere off to the side and behind him out of his line of sight. He knew it was normal, it was just like before, like the last time he had been on a practice court at a tournament site. But still it felt entirely different. The heightened attention in combination with his own feelings of uncertainty were simply too much to take in all at once.  
   
The most awful thing about it though was the very simple truth, that it would only get worse on Monday when the tournament was officially underway and the grounds would be filled with people. Rafa knew that there was nothing to be done about it. It was simply the way things were. But large crowds of people made him incredibly nervous and around the tournament site there would be no chance to escape that. It seemed they all wanted a piece of him…  
   
And of course there were all the other players… including Roger. He hadn’t seen any of them since Paris and he felt a little apprehensive at being around them again. With Roger it was worse. After everything that Carlos had told him about the part Roger had played in the attack on him, Rafa really wasn’t looking forward to the encounter.

As far as he had been informed, Roger wasn't even here yet which seemed kind of curious to Rafa. He hadn't exactly followed the tournament results closely but he knew Roger had lost in the quarterfinals of Cincinnati giving him plenty of time to travel to the US Open and be here early. But he hadn't done that and Rafa couldn't help but wonder if it had something to do with him and Roger dreaded their first meeting since Paris just as much as Rafa did.

All in all it was a good thing Roger wasn't here. It gave Rafa the chance to ease back into the whole rhythm and routine with a little less pressure, talk and mingle with other players without constantly having to be on his guard in case Roger showed up... It wouldn't stay like this for much longer, Rafa knew that too. But he took what was given to him, especially since there was one more, big and daunting thing still ahead of him that he had to do and felt anything but positive about. 

On top of being back, having trouble adjusting and seemingly having a million people around him who all wanted to know how he was doing, there had been the matter of the pre tournament press conference. Journalists had pretty much fallen over one another to get a chance to talk to him and he knew he couldn’t very well refuse. It was part of the package and it was expected of him. The one thing he had insisted on if he had to do this though he really didn't want to, was that he would be holding the damn thing in Spanish and only in Spanish. 

After 10 weeks of speaking only his native tongue he would not risk being caught off guard by the fact, that the correct English phrasing would not come to him. Not with something as delicate and emotionally draining as talking about the attack, the injuries and his recovery. Maybe it wasn't the way these things were usually done but Rafa couldn't bring himself to care. He was one of the most celebrated players on the tour. He felt he was allowed to ask for special treatment only just this once.

The press conference had been scheduled for late Sunday morning and there had been times throughout Rafa had been about an inch away from calling the whole thing off. All players were if not mandated but expected to give a press statement after their matches – whether they lost or won - and the top seeds were expected to give pre tournament press statements as well. It was expected of him especially as interest was so high in the fact that he had returned after a long absence due to injury. But that didn't make it any easier and certainly didn't make him feel any more comfortable.

Stepping into the room late on Sunday morning, packed with journalists, buzzing with energy and filled with the clicking sounds of cameras as soon as he stepped a foot into the room was daunting and quite frankly it left him with a hard knot in his stomach, a gigantic lump in his throat and the almost overwhelming wish to just turn tail and run. But he pushed through, he told himself to stay calm, to show composure and somehow he managed to sit down and wish the assembled group of reporters a good morning. A younger man from a Spanish sports magazine off to Rafa's left was the first to get up. 

“First of all I think we all want to wish you a warm welcome and good luck for your fist tournament back on the ATP tour...”

“Thank you.”

It had been a pleasant start and a rather nice thing for the journalist to say. Rafa hadn't expected that. He had expected low blow after low blow until his temper would give out on him or the scheduled time for the press conference was over. He could only hope it would be the letter. But actually getting a show of sympathy and good wishes was a nice start for this event he had dreaded so much. Unfortunately it didn't stay that pleasant for much longer. 

“So, how are you today? How did your recovery go? Do you feel you are ready?”

It was only the first of a lot more intrusive questions and by the third or fourth journalist they were bold enough to actually ask him about Paris, the attack and the hospital stay. It was in that moment Rafa's doubts went into overdrive. Not only about agreeing to this press conference he had known in advance would be an awful affair but about coming here in the first place. It was the second time on only four days he second guessed his decision. But it was a little like playing a five set match down two sets... You just kept on hitting, waiting for the rhythm to come and to finally find that comfortable zone where everything suddenly seemed possible. He could only hope to achieve that here as well. But as of now that feeling of comfort and certainty eluded him, leaving him with only one other choice – grind, fight through and hopefully come out on top. 

#*#*#*#*#  
   
Roger had arrived in New York late on Saturday evening. He had tried to talk Charlotte into accompanying him to the US Open and she had told him – in no uncertain terms -  to get the hell over himself and stop avoiding a conflict that was bound to happen sooner or later anyway. Now that Rafa was back, there was no way of avoiding him. She had told him that it was simply part of life and to deal with it already. As much as he had hated her bluntness and her unwillingness to be supportive, he had to admit she had a rather strong point. This wasn’t her fight to fight. It was his.  
   
He had to talk to the Spaniard and he had decided the best way was to act as if he was ripping a bandage of – the sooner and quicker the better... He had wanted to do it on Saturday night already but he had found out about Rafa's press conference scheduled in the morning on Sunday and had decided not to bother the younger man before that. He could only imagine how tough that first time back in front of a bunch of journalists after months of absence from both the sport and the media would be and he hadn't wanted to add to that.   
   
Instead Roger had decided to watch what Rafa had to say. Seeing Rafa’s pre tournament press conference however had been one thing above anything else – it had been downright painful and Roger still wasn’t sure why he was still having the TV on. He hadn’t understood a word that had been spoken but that was what the simultaneous translation was for. Unfortunately it took none of the anguish away because even if it weren't Rafa's words exactly the expressions and gestures accompanying the words were still his. And it was very, very hard to look at.

Roger could understand why Rafa had chosen to do this in Spanish. So far none of the journalists had asked him anything remotely tennis related. It had all been about Paris, the attack, the injuries and his recovery so far. Roger was pretty sure half of the so called journalists there didn't write for sports but for some gossip magazine... Talking about this uncomfortable subject surely was awful for Rafa and that was putting it mildly. This way – dealing with the questions in his native tongue - he probably felt a little better about it, a little safer.  
   
Roger had been amazed at the openness and honesty Rafa had displayed towards the press. He had always been rather generous with this kind of information and there had been no reason to assume it would be any different this time. As they tended to be, the journalists had shown little to no sympathy to the emotional onslaught their questions might cause. All they cared about was to get a good headline out of what Rafa had to tell them.  
   
Roger had shut the TV off when Rafa had started talking about how scared he had been waking up to the sensation in his legs completely missing and how tough and frustrating it had been for him to wait for his body to heal enough to allow him to stand on his own two feet again. He simply couldn’t listen to all this pain and devastation, for which he both still felt very much responsible, any longer. His wife, who had been silently scrutinizing, breathed a sigh of relief when he finally stopped watching.  
   
“Finally. It’s good to see you’re actually able to stop torturing yourself all by yourself without any incentive from Charlotte… or me for that matter.”  
   
It was meant as a joke but Roger didn’t feel much amusement at the moment. He was still having a hard time getting over what he had just heard. He and Rafa hadn't talked about any of this until now and hearing it from the younger man himself – albeit through a translator – was simply devastating. There were so many little things, so many details Roger hadn't had any idea about that made it all the harder to keep his own panic and the ever relentless guilt at bay. He needed a chance to finally clear the air with Rafa and get some semblance of normality back into the relationship they shared. For the moment however he was still fully focused on trying to understand why the younger man was taking all of this upon himself when it was clearly upsetting for him.   
   
“Why would he do that to himself… He could have simply declined any media attention whatsoever. This is a private matter after all. It doesn’t concern tennis. They have no right to demand information.”  
   
“This was never about tennis. It was always about him and Rafa seems to appreciate the fact that if people want to know he should tell them.”  
   
“I still don’t get it. He didn’t have to do this. And he didn’t want to. Did he seem overly comfortable or confident to you? This is wrong…”  
   
“From what I saw he managed to handle himself quite alright.”  
   
She refrained from saying something along the lines of ‘better than you ever could’. It wasn’t helping the already tense situation and it would only drive Roger away from her or make him even more irritated than he already was. From Mirka's point of view there had been no way for Rafa to avoid this press conference. That wasn't to say she felt no sympathy for him. She wasn't as invested in all this as her husband was but it had been painful for her to watch as well and she had been glad when Roger finally turned off the TV. She would have been even more grateful if Rafa had finally decided to simply stop and not allow to be questioned in this rude and intrusive matter any longer... Her husbands next words – completely out of context – pulled her from her gloomy thoughts.   
   
“I think I should go see him.”  
   
“Now?”  
   
“As soon as this inquisition disguised as a press conference is over. It’s been long enough. We need to talk to one another.”

Mirka nodded at that. She knew it was the right thing to do, the one thing Charlotte had urged Roger to do. And she agreed with Charlotte's assessment that both men needed this conversation desperately. She was sure it would help either one of them to come to terms with what had happened in Paris or at least gain some further perspective on it. What she didn't agree with however, was the aggressiveness Charlotte had suggested, especially seeing that press conference right now. The one thing she was sure of was that Rafa would not leave that onslaught of questions unscathed and pressuring him in a fragile state of mind certainly wasn't a good idea. There was no need for worry though. It seemed Roger wholeheartedly shared her opinion.   
   
“Yes, you should. Please don’t go with Charlotte’s advice and push anything, okay? I know she only had your best interest at heart but telling you to force a conversation on Rafa no matter what is not a good idea…”  
   
“I know that. The last thing I want to do is pressure him. He’s been through enough… I’ll just try and see how it goes.”  
   
“Good luck then, I guess...”

#*#*#*#*#

Rafa had returned to his hotel room after that seemingly never ending press conference and had felt about ready to simply drop down to the floor and cry. It had been far worse than he had ever imagined and all those intrusive, unsympathetic questions had brought back pieces of memories he had rather forgotten. It had been painful to talk about his injury in detail, to remember all the devastation and fear he had felt at that time and it had even caused a physical reaction.

Above all he felt drained and a little bit nauseous. But it wasn't just that. There was a soft, uncomfortable throbbing to the surgical incisions and he felt like his insides were shifting around only adding to the nausea. He knew it was his psyche playing tricks on him but that didn't make it any easier to deal with the physical fallout.

The members of his team had been worried about him after the press statement. They had urged him to have at least one of them stay with him and give them a chance to talk to him and maybe distract him a little. But Rafa had declined. He felt he had done enough talking for one morning and right now he didn't want to see anybody. There had been a short but heated discussion with Carlos and finally his trainer had relented, giving him space. 

Rafa had returned to his room alone and had actually allowed himself a moment of weakness, closing the door behind him, simply sliding down the smooth painted wood, dropping to his rear, pulling his legs up to his chest and had closed his eyes and tried to focus on his breathing. Tears hadn't come but only because he had fought them down. He knew if he started, there was no way to stop again any time soon. Maybe it would have been good for him, cathartic even but he was simply too stubborn to allow all the emotions bottled up inside to seep out. All he needed was some peace and quiet to collect his thought, calm his mind and find his composure again. Until then he would simply sit here and breathe. 

There was a soft knock on the door right behind him and a frustrated sigh escaped Rafa's lips. Leave it up to the damn, stubborn members of his team to simply not listen to him and allow their emotions and concern for him to dictate their actions even though they had expressly been told otherwise. He could have just stayed where he was and not opened the door but somehow he feared that would only make matters worse. In the end they would worry if something had happened to him... He got up, wincing at the discomfort in his side but hid away the pain behind a mask of irritation, basically ripping the door open, ready to curse at his unwanted visitor he was sure was his trainer again who had been so vocal about Rafa not staying by himself.

“Carlos te ha dicho...”

The moment he realized the visitor in front of his door was not exactly who he had expected, Rafa stopped mid sentence and simply stared. The visitor in front of his door was definitely an unwanted one but it wasn't Carlos. It was the very last person he had expected to show up at his door. Quite frankly he wasn't sure how he felt about this and he had even less of an idea how to react. He opted for a version of hello though there was no friendliness to his tone of voice.

“Roger.”

“Rafa, hey... Can I... can I come in?”

For the longest of moments Roger was absolutely sure Rafa would say no or show not even that much consideration towards him and simply close the door on him. Finally the younger man opted for simply turning around and stepping further into his hotel room, leaving it up to Roger to decide if the halfway open door was meant for him to close in front of or behind him. Roger decided to take his chances, stepped into the room and shut the door. The sound seemed incredibly loud in the awkward silence and Rafa turned around rather abruptly, facing him again. 

The expression on his face was one usually reserved for on court performances. It was one of concentration, of sternness and one that betrayed no emotion whatsoever. There was nothing of the happy, friendly, sometimes a little goofy and awkward off court persona even remotely visible. Rafa had effectively shut Roger out by putting that stony mask on his face, not letting even a glimpse of an emotion shine through. His voice betrayed just as little but for the slight tremble to his words that showed how hard he had to fight to keep his composure intact.   
   
“What did you come here for?”  
   
“I... I just wanted to know how you were... Are you... okay?”  
   
“No. Not yet. But I'm better.”  
   
“Shouldn't you be recuperating? Are you sure it's a good idea to be here?”

Roger bit his tongue and felt about ready to kick himself at the stupid question. He was no better than those nosy journalists grilling Rafa about his decision to come here. His expression still didn't betray much of any emotion – neither irritation nor amusement – and Roger started to get the distinct feeling that it had been a bad idea to come here. Rafa was obviously still dealing with the fallout from the press conference and from everything Roger witnessed he wasn't doing a very good job at it.   
   
“Why else would I be here?”

“That's true I guess... I...I saw parts of your press conference... I'm sorry.”

“For what?”

“The way those journalists kept going at you. It wasn't... okay.”

“Why do you care?”

It was a low blow, one Roger had never expected from the Spaniard. It was so unlike Rafa to be so viciously offending that Roger had a hard time not to physically recoil from the nastiness in Rafa's words. The question all in itself was a legitimate one, that much Roger had to admit. After all he wasn't part of Rafa's team, he wasn't family and he wasn't exactly a friend. It seemed there was no cause or reason for him to be this invested, which made it so hard to explain his reasons. He never got a chance to anyway. Rafa interrupted him before he even managed to get two words out.   
   
“I...”  
   
“I know why you came. I don't want to hear it.”  
   
“Hear what?”  
   
“Your apology.”

A cold hard knot of dread started to settle in Roger's stomach. He had feared the conversation to take a turn like this, had asked himself what exactly Carlos Moya had told Rafa and as it turned out now it obviously hadn't been anything that showed Roger in even a remotely good light. Otherwise Rafa never would have expected to hear an apology and he probably would have been a lot more friendly and even a little grateful for the fact that Roger had helped to keep him alive after the initial attack in Paris. The way things were presenting themselves it seemed Carlos had only told Rafa what he believed Roger's knowledge about the letter send to him meant in regards to his involvement in Rafa's injury. Roger swallowed hard, trying to keep his panic at bay.   
   
“You know... They told you?”  
   
“Yes.”  
   
“Rafa, I...”

Once again Roger was interrupted before he managed so much as half a sentence to be uttered in his defense. This time Rafa's feelings were all too clearly visible on his face. There was disdain and anger and Roger couldn't exactly blame him for either of those feelings. Even if Carlos had been wrong in telling Rafa Roger had known about the letter before the final and had simply decided to gain from it, the fact that Roger could have stopped it all was one he couldn't deny. Rafa didn't make this easy on him. Then again he didn't have to...   
   
“Stop. Just stop. You didn't come here for me. You came here for you. So you would feel better. I won't do that for you. Go. Now.”  
   
Rafa simply turned and stepped away, stepping out of the main room and into the bedroom, closing the door behind him, leaving no doubt as to what Roger was supposed to do now. His presence was no longer wanted or appreciated. For a moment Roger just stood there, unable to move, unable to think and with no idea what to do next. He could have gone after the younger man, he could have tried to stop him, grab him, make him not walk away. It was exactly what Charlotte had advised him to do and the very last thing he wanted to do. 

He had no right to demand anything from Rafa, he had no right to force his apology on him and await absolution in return. He had no right for much of anything when it came to Rafa. Quite frankly he didn't even have the right to be here anymore and he felt awkward standing there in the main room of Rafa's hotel suite all alone and abandoned. As much as he hated how this conversation had turned out, there was only one thing he still could do right now. Roger left.


	39. Simply impossible

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No Roger in this chapter but we get a glimpse into the mental repercussions of what happened to Rafa in this one.  
> I'll be gone for half the week next week and won't be able to update on Monday.  
> If I get around to it, I will post a new chapter tomorrow instead, next one after that will be on Thursday.
> 
> Enjoy
> 
> <>°O°<>

New York – 2nd day of the US Open   
   
The night from Sunday to Monday had been a sleepless one for Rafa. Both the press conference and Roger's visit had weighed heavily on his mind and his practice session early Monday morning had reflected that. Now it was Tuesday, a little after noon and it was almost time for him... He was minutes away from his very first match after two and a half months of rest and recovery, the very first time back on court under competitive circumstances since the attack. And he felt utterly nervous to the point of working himself into a frenzy and giving himself nausea in the process.

Carlos was there with him and he was still in overprotective mode as he had been ever since the press conference on Sunday. It wasn’t usually done this way and Carlos was supposed to be at the player’s box right now but given the special circumstances the tournament officials had been extremely understanding. It was almost time to go out on court and Carlos had promised to be there for him until Rafa had actually stepped outside. As much as he hated Carlos playing the motherhen, he still appreciated the other man's presence... even if he was grating on his nerves. 

“You look like you’re about to be sick…”  
   
“I’m fine.”  
   
“Could have fooled me…”  
   
“Carlos!”  
   
“Alright, alright. You're fine. Just peachy. Sorry I asked.”

Rafa was glad his opponent - some American qualifier Rafa had never played against before – couldn't understand the banter going back and forth between him and Carlos. He probably would have believed Rafa to have some kind of meltdown. He wasn't too far from the truth... Usually Rafa would have engaged in just a tiny bit of friendly small talk with the other, younger and obviously nervous man, getting him to relax just a little bit before he stepped out onto the big stage of Center Court. Today however Rafa couldn't bring himself to do it. He was way too preoccupied with his own fears and inadequacies to deal with another person's emotions.  
   
The announcer in the stadium could be heard over the noise of the crowd, announcing the young American first. There was cheering to be heard and the young man disappeared from Rafa's sight stepping out onto the court. The moment his own name was announced it was like a tidal wave washing over him, leaving him completely incapacitated and unable to even tell up from down any more. The nausea he had denied to Carlos he felt threatened to overwhelm him and for the briefest of seconds his vision tunneled and grayed. 

Nothing had happened. It was just like always when a match on Center Court was played and it was time for the players to enter. They were announced, they stepped outside, the crowd cheered and then play would commence… But for Rafa everything was different right there and then. It felt like they expected some sort of miracle from him and he knew for a fact there was no way he would be able to do this. Not now and – the way he felt in that moment, his breathing hitching and his legs threatening to give way – probably not ever again… All he managed was a hoarse whisper in Carlos general direction.  
   
“I can’t.”  
   
“What do you mean, you can’t?”  
   
“Go out there. Play. I can’t.”  
   
“Why? What’s wrong? Are you hurting? Is it the scars? Stomach pain? Tingling? Do we need to call a doctor?”

Carlos was very suddenly, very acutely in his face and Rafa had to take a step back to put some distance between himself and the older man. He couldn't stand the proximity, the closeness of another person. He had no idea what had happened to him. All he knew was that he was deeply afraid to the point of simply freaking out right here and now and that there was no chance in hell he would be able to step out on that court.   
   
“No… It’s not that. I just can’t… I…I’m sorry.”  
   
Before Carlos had a chance to stop him, Rafa had turned to leave and go back to the locker room, pretty much running away though he tried very hard to keep an even pace. He could hear the commotion from the stadium dying down a little the further away he got. The physical distance between him and the court helped some but he was anything but composed. He found his way back to the locker room, dropped down on one of the benches and closed his eyes, trying to breathe evenly. As it had to be expected Carlos had followed, his quick steps overly loud in the quiet room as he approached Rafa. The younger man wasn’t sure what was more prominent – Carlos worry or his anger.  
   
“Rafa, what the hell?! What do you think you’re doing?! This is ridiculous. Go back out there.”  
   
“I told you. I can’t…”  
   
“This was all your idea in the first place! You insisted on coming here. We're all here because you wanted it this way. You can't just not play. You have to go out there.”

Finally Rafa found the courage to open his eyes and look up as well as the right words to explain to Carlos what the problem was thought he had the distinct feeling his trainer didn't exactly understand. Ow could he though. He had no idea, couldn't possibly fathom what was going through Rafa's mind. After all nothing even remotely close to what had happened in Paris had ever happened to Carlos. Which was probably the main reason why he was so oblivious... and still very much furious.   
   
“There's people...”  
   
“Well of course there's people!”  
   
“There's people behind me... Right there on court... I will have somebody behind me right there and I can't... I just can't...”  
   
Rafa watched Carlos closely for any signs of understanding what he was meaning to tell him. It took another very long moment to register what exactly the problem was and then it was like his coach had run head first into a brick wall. Rafa could watch Carlos swallow down a lump that had suddenly formed in his throat. He got it now. The last time Rafa had been on a tennis court competing, somebody had attacked him from behind and stabbed him in the back... Carlos shook himself from his stupor moment later, full of focused energy and determination all of a sudden and all his anger dissipated.   
   
 “I… I’ll go tell them. You should probably get dressed and ready to leave. There’ll be an onslaught of media attention coming your way once this gets announced.”  
   
“All I want is to go back to the hotel. No press, no questions, no dirty looks. Please?”  
   
“We’ll get that arranged somehow.”  
   
Carlos had been true to his word and Rafa still had no idea how his team had actually managed any of it. He was grateful of course but still too overwhelmed to tell them. There was nobody there right now anyway. Carlos had organized transport for him and he had returned to the hotel alone. His team however was still dealing with the fallout from his withdrawal or at least that was what Rafa assumed. He hadn't dared to turn on the TV or his phone this far, not wanting to see the consequence of his inability to keep his feeling in check…. 

Carlos was bone tired when he returned to the hotel and let himself into Rafa's room unannounced with a second key card reception had given to him. It had been a god awful afternoon of telling half truths and little white lies to press and players and fans all the while knowing fully well that none of this would have happened in the first place if Rafa had simply listened to reason and decided against coming to the US Open. It was hard not to be angry with the younger man, knowing his stubbornness was what had brought all this chaos and mayhem upon them to begin with. Which was why Carlos simply couldn't scrounge up a sympathetic reaction when he found Rafa on the balcony of his hotel room, staring off into the distance, looking both lost and sad. 

“This was not a pleasant afternoon, let me tell you that. You insisted on coming here, dragging us all along in the process only to withdraw on the very first day of play and at the last possible second. That’s not fair and it’s definitely not okay. Not to your opponent, not to the tournament officials, not to the fans and especially not to us. I want an explanation, Rafael.”  
   
Rafa hadn't heard Carlos coming in and almost jumped out of the lounge chair he had settled in at the sound of the sliding door to the balcony being opened. He relaxed a little when he realized it was Carlos but couldn't help the fury bubbling up at the man's less than sensitive action. After all he knew how much Rafa hated and feared having somebody behind him without being able to see them come. Seeing the expression on Carlos face and hearing his angry words though, Rafa's anger dissipated and was replaced by both shame and guilt. It was probably the first time in almost a decade Carlos had called him by his full name. Rafa had no recollection what the last time had been about but Carlos had probably been just as restrained in trying to reign in his anger.  
   
“I’m sorry…”  
   
“An explanation, NOT an apology. What happened out there?”  
   
“I don’t know.”  
   
“Of course you know. You just don’t want to tell me. Do you… remember? Is that what happened? Some sort of flashback?”  
   
“No, it wasn’t like that, not really… It’s more like a vague feeling. A very bad vague feeling.”   
   
It wasn't exactly an answer to Carlos question but it was a start. His trainer was still wearing that expecting, almost demanding look on his face though that told Rafa all too clearly that what little of an explanation he had offered so far wasn't enough for Carlos. And the older man was right. He deserved a proper explanation. It was just so hard to talk about this without feeling like a complete idiot. The more time passed the more displeased Rafa was with his emotion fueled reaction at the stadium.   
   
“You’ll think I’m being stupid… or worse, going crazy.”  
   
“You were afraid that much I understood.”  
   
Rafa’s reaction was a rapid succession of barely comprehensible words to put it mildly and he didn’t even seem surprised that he had been so easy to read. He gave a soft nod that barely registered and didn’t seem to be able to gather enough courage to look up and face Carlos. Once he did the words were tumbling from his mouth like a dam had broken. It was a strange reaction, almost like he was afraid of repercussions if he didn't explain himself quickly enough. Towards the end of it, there were a few mumbled words almost too low to actually make out but when Carlos deciphered what Rafa has said, it took his breath away. It had been an apology of all things…  
   
“Yes, I was. Afraid of being out there, afraid of people behind me, people I couldn't see and had no control over. I was afraid Paris would repeat itself and even the thought of that send me into a panicked frenzy. I couldn't deal. I didn't know what else to do. I simply had to get away. It was all just too much. I... I’m sorry…”  
   
“What on earth are you sorry for?! Nobody expected you to be here, to be well enough already to actually try to compete. You surprised all of us, scared some of us to be honest with the amount of will and determination you showed throughout your recovery. Your family told you to take your time, your doctors told you to take your time but you wanted to be here. It’s been less then three months since you were attacked and less then six weeks ago you were still in the hospital trying to walk again… The pace, the things you put yourself through to actually be here today, it had to catch up with you at some point. I’m glad it did BEFORE you went out on court, not after…”  
   
“I feel… like an idiot.”

Carlos couldn't help but smile at that. Leave it up to Rafa to feel stupid for a perfectly normal and legitimate emotional reaction to a difficult situation. After everything he had been through – both physically and mentally – nobody had expected him to be here let alone do well in the tournament. Being here and even trying to return to professional tennis was a huge accomplishment in itself already. And in Carlos book there was nothing about Rafa's reaction today that warranted any kind of shame. He took a step closer, placing a gentle hand on the younger man's shoulder.   
   
“There’s no need for that. To be honest we were all worried how you would handle being back out on a tennis court in a stadium full of people. Turns out you didn’t handle it well. But that’s okay. It’s to be expected. You’re not supposed to just brush this off and return to normal. Not after what happened…”  
   
There was a long moment of silence between them but this time it wasn't uncomfortable or overloaded with negative emotions. They simple were close – trainer and player – out there on the balcony trying both very hard to make sense of what had happened today. This wasn't only about today though and Carlos actually dreaded to ask the question because he knew that Rafa would probably feel leaving New York was pretty much like admitting defeat. Still a decision needed to be reached how to proceed from what had happened at the stadium today.  
   
“What now then? Back home?”

Rafa shook his head no at the question. He had enough time to think about which steps to take next and simply leaving – as much of a tempting option as it was – was not what he wanted to do. He had come here to finally return to the tour, return to his former life and that was still what he intended to do. It would be increasingly harder now because he couldn't avoid questions from press and fans and fellow players forever but it still felt a lot better than to simply turn tail and run away back home.   
   
“No, I… I think I would like to stay for a little while longer.”  
   
“Why?”  
   
“Because you were right. What I did today, it’s not fair… There are so many people excited to have me here. There’s still about two dozen interview requests I haven’t been able to get to yet, there’s so many fans showing appreciation and there is a lot of fellow players who have expressed their desire to practice with me – forcefully. I can’t just leave. I want to… get a feel for being at tournaments again. It all feels strange and foreign and daunting at the moment… I want that feeling to vanish, I want to feel normal being on the tour again. And I want a chance to see some of the matches.”  
   
“So no flight home?”  
   
“No flight home.”  
   
“I’ll tell my wife.”

Rafa's head whipped up so suddenly Carlos was almost sure the younger man must have hurt himself. Rafa was staring at him with wide eyes, very obviously completely taken aback by Carlos reaction. He didn't get it though. Rafa had asked him – personally and specifically – to support and accompany him while he was at the US Open and the last thing Carlos planned to do was to stop being supportive especially now. He was a friend to Rafa just as much as a coach and friends helped one another in need.  
   
“You don’t have to stay!”  
   
“You just said you don’t feel comfortable being here. Of course I’ll stay.”


	40. Coping mechanisms

*Later that same day*  
   
New York  
   
Roger had won his own first round match the day before comfortably and had decided to go and see Rafa play. As it turned out though, there was no match for him to see. Rafa had withdrawn – without so much as an explanation or a personal apology. He had simply disappeared and the general consensus seemed to be that he had simply choked and more or less broken under pressure... 

Roger wasn't so sure about that. He couldn't help the feeling his visit on Sunday afternoon and the ensuing discussion between them – which actually had been Roger holding a monologue and Rafa listening with a stony expression on his face – had something to do with all of it. The memory was still vivid in his mind and not just because of the physical changes so blatantly visible upon seeing Rafa up, close and personal for the first time in weeks. Those weren't the problem. Rafa was working on that and eventually his body would return to normal. It were the changes in demeanor that still got to Roger. The lack of a smile, of so much as one positive emotion showing on Rafa's face while they had spoken... it was still disconcerting. Though in all fairness Roger was probably the last person in the world to expect any kindness from Rafa.

Roger had returned to his hotel room, feeling utterly confused and devastated at the news of Rafa pulling out of his match and the tournament. He wished there was something he could do, something he could help with. But the facts were simple. Rafa had withdrawn and that meant the US Open were over for him. Nothing the younger man had hoped for to achieve here had gone according to plan and there was only rumors and speculation as to why that had happened. 

Mirka was on the phone when he returned to their suite. She hadn't been at the tournament site today, other responsibilities claiming her. From what he could tell from her side of the conversation she was on the phone with one of their daughters and it seemed to be about something the girl had planned for Saturday evening her mother was less than thrilled about. Probably some sleepover or maybe even a party by a friend from school. 

It wasn't fair to leave her alone with this, Roger knew that. But his wife seemed engrossed in the rather heated discussion and showed no indication that she wanted his help or his input. Roger decided to have a shower after the unfortunate events at the tournament ground to pass the time and get away from the angry exchange. Somehow he felt like he needed it and he also hoped for the spray of warm water to help calm his mind. When he returned to the main room 15 minutes later, Mirka had finished her call. She was looking at him intensely and it seemed she immediately picked up on the fact that there was something bothering him. 

“What's wrong?”

“He withdrew...”  
   
“Who? Rafa? Yes, I'm aware. It was probably too soon. That's the general consensus on the matter. He pushed himself too hard and had to admit to the fact he wasn't ready yet.”

Roger had heard the same explanation before from several sides while still at the tournament grounds. It was a simple and fitting one but somehow it felt wrong to him. Things were rarely ever that simple and he knew for a fact that Rafa had wanted to be here, had believed to be ready. One didn't just change his mind seconds before going out on court. He was sure there was more to it, especially since giving up like that and not even explaining himself was so unlike the Spaniard's usual M.O. That Roger couldn't help but wonder.   
   
“But he didn't even try. The Rafa I know never would have simply given up without so much as trying. He would have been out there on court giving it at least a couple of games to see where he's standing. But he didn't. He simply... left.”  
   
“You're reading too much into this.”  
   
“He avoided the press too, you know. Didn't show up for the conference, had himself excused... That's not like him at all. Something fishy is going on here, something the whole damn team around him won't talk about. And I can’t shake the feeling none of that would have happened if I hadn’t gone to talk to him…”  
   
“That’s ridiculous.”

So far he had simply ignored everything Mirka had been saying to him in response but being so blatantly called out on the fact that he was overreacting wasn't something Roger was able to ignore. Unlike him Mirka was being reasonable, he knew that. She could be because she wasn't as emotionally invested. But he felt she had no right to tell him he was wrong in his beliefs that at least a tiny part of the reason for Rafa's withdrawal from today's match had to do with him. After all she only knew what little he had told her about the conversation that Sunday afternoon.   
   
“Is it? Really? You weren’t there, Mirka. You don’t know. I upset him…”

“I'm pretty sure he was upset from the start. That pre tournament presser was a nightmare.”

“And I made it worse...”  
   
“Call Charlotte, Roger.”

There was a hint of amusement to his wife's voice and it felt a lot like she was pulling out of this conversation for the sake of her own peace of mind. She didn't give up on him though even if it felt a little like she did, opting out of the conversation and urging him to have it with somebody else instead. But his wife had a very clear understanding that no matter what she said to him, he wouldn't listen to her anyway. She wanted for him to gain some perspective and let go of the idea he was responsible. Mirka hadn't been able to help him with that but obviously his wife put a lot of stock in Charlotte and her professional skills as a counselor. It wasn't bad advise and Roger was supposed to talk to Charlotte anyway. She had wanted an update as soon as he had talked to Rafa and he had already avoided that phone call for more than a day now as he had nothing positive to say about the encounter. But he knew he couldn't avoid Charlotte forever.  
   
He wasn't given much choice in the matter anyway because Mirka didn't just tell him what to do but held out her cell phone to him seconds later. Roger gave a soft sigh and took the phone from his wife. Obviously it was now or never... Calling his therapist's number, Charlotte picked up on the second ring and she didn't bother with so much as a word of hello or any other pleasantries. Obviously she had been waiting for his call.

“Finally. I’ve been on the edge of my damn seat for two days now! How did it go?”  
   
“Badly.”

“Badly how?”

It was a difficult question to answer because there were so many different aspects and layers to what had gone wrong Roger had no idea where to start. In the end it barely mattered why things had gone wrong in detail, all that mattered was that they had. What he needed was a way to deal with the fallout from it all and just as every other time he had needed her to Charlotte was lending perspective in her unique belligerent and brutally honest way. 

“I think I made matters worse. Rafa withdrew from his match...”

“There could be a dozen reasons for that. You know that. Don't flatter yourself too much.”  
   
“This is not about flattery damn it and you are not even remotely funny! He was upset when I left even more so than before because of that stupid press conference. I did this...”

“Roger please try to calm down and understand that Nadal's world doesn't solely revolve around you. I am absolutely sure there is another explanation. Take a deep breath, push every last thought about this out of your mind and relax...”

It wasn't a suggestion. It were instructions to help him breathe through the panic attack that threatened to overwhelm him and Roger gladly followed Charlotte's lead. Solely focusing on his breathing wasn't easy with all the conflicting thoughts and emotions still swirling through his mind but the longer he kept at it the better it worked for him. It was probably strange for Charlotte to listen to him breathing but she gave no indication that she did mind.

Throughout the process of getting his emotions back under control an idea popped into Rogers mind. Talking to Charlotte had helped and he felt he shouldn't be the only one to benefit from his newly found but trusted counselor. Now that he felt a little calmer and had at least some of his composure back, he tried another, different approach, hoping the younger woman would see both reason and necessity in his request.  
   
“Charlotte there is something I need to ask of you. I know it’s a gigantic favor and I’m probably entirely out of line but if I can manage to get him to stay for a couple more days and agree to doing this, would you come here and talk to Rafa? Please?”  
   
“What for?”  
   
“Because I know you can do something I never could.”  
   
“What’s that?”  
   
“Lend perspective and be objective about it.”  
   
There was silence on the other end of the line for an agonizingly long moment and then Charlotte sighed softly. Roger's heart sank. He knew it had been a long shot in the first place. Charlotte had a rather unique approach about her therapeutic efforts and she probably didn't appreciate being pressured into a situation she didn't want to be in. After all she had repeatedly denied Roger's request to follow him to New York. To her it probably seemed like he was simply trying yet another option to get her to comply. She didn't exactly say no though and that left a glimmer of hope still to shine on.

“I told you this is your battle to fight.”  
   
“That’s just it thought. It’s not a battle, it’s not something for me to win… We have both been … traumatized by this and we will never be able to talk to one another about any of it if we don’t admit to the effects it had on us. I’m ready… I don’t think he is.”  
   
“So what you’re asking me is to offer counsel to somebody who doesn’t want it?”  
   
“Isn’t that what you do?”

Charlotte was chuckling at the other end of the line now. It didn't happen often to her that one of her patient's actually joked and made fun of her particularities as a counselor. She still wasn't sure whether to be irritated or amused at Roger's audacity. The one thing she was sure about was how passionate and sure of himself the Swiss was about his request and it made it easier for Charlotte to come up with a decision.  
   
“Point taken. Alright. If he actually agrees and you treat me to a full compliment of a flight, hotel room and a nice dinner in a fancy restaurant, I’ll do it.”  
   
“Thank you, Charlotte.”  
   
“See. You’ll get me to be there during USO after all.”  
   
Of course she insisted on calling him out on the fact that Roger had managed to get his way with her after all. Of course he was doing this for Rafa's sake and well-being but he knew very well that he didn't just do it solely for the other man's benefit. He would be feeling better as well – less guilty and responsible – if the therapist would come here on his behalf and would talk to Rafa, hopefully being able to help him as well. And of course it also gave him a chance to have Charlotte here to talk to in person. He was sure he was doing a good job at disguising that particular thought process but of course Charlotte was seeing right through it.

“This isn’t for me…”  
   
“The hell it isn’t. Bye, Roger.”

She ended the call before Roger had a chance to say goodbye in return. He kept staring at the phone for almost a full minute before putting it down. Charlotte was infuriatingly good at reading him and though it was a good thing for their professional relationship and helpful for her as a therapist and him as her patient, he hated the fact that she could see right through him. She wasn't wrong though. Getting her to talk to Rafa and help him with whatever it was that was bothering him, would help the Spaniard just as much as it would help Roger. Hopefully Charlotte coming here would be good – for both of them.


	41. Setting things in motion

*3rd day of the US Open*

 

New York

Rafa had hidden himself away for the remainder of the day after his match. He still felt the decision to stay in New York was a good one but he knew there were still a lot of questions about his rather sudden and unexpected withdrawal from yesterday's match and if he wanted to spend the next week and a half with some semblance of peace and quiet, he needed to deal with this. He didn't want to but as with so many other things in life there were some responsibilities that shying away from simply wasn't an option.

There needed to be another press conference – both to explain what happened and to announce he would be staying. But after how badly and drained he had felt after the last encounter with the press Rafa wasn't looking forward to the prospect of doing it again. What he wished for was to simply enjoy the fact that he was here and had a chance to be a part of the tour and the excitement of the tournament without any additional responsibilities when it came to his own play. He was out of the competition after all and that left him with the unique chance to be a spectator for the rest of the Grand Slam. He hoped it would also help him to ease back into the whole routine a little better. 

Carlos had picked him up for breakfast with a demeanor that was so overly cheery, Rafa was almost sure the talk with his wife had not gone over too well for Carlos. He could have asked about it but he was pretty sure to get a vague and deflective answer in return. After Rafa's revelation and the explanation for his reason being unable to play the match yesterday, Carlos was still acting and looking at him like he was this fragile thing that needed to be treated gently. Rafa didn't like the older man's concern but he wasn't exactly bothered by it either. Instead he decided to use it to his advantage, hoping for Carlos' company throughout the day. It didn't go over as easy as Rafa would have liked it to though.  
   
“I'd like to go see a match today.”

“You should talk to the press first. Withdrawing yesterday and going to see a match today like nothing ever happened seems like a tremendously bad idea to me.”

“I don't want to.”

“Of course you don't. But as we pretty much made it sound like you had sort of a mental breakdown in order to explain what happened yesterday it would definitely be better to talk to the press and put the whole thing into perspective...”

Rafa who had been halfway through to treating himself to another spoonful of cereal stopped mid motion and stared at his coach in a mixture of both shock and righteous anger. He hadn't asked about any specifics of what his team had actually told the press as a reason for his withdrawal from the match yesterday but he had expected a little more delicacy in their choice of words. The way Carlos made it sound, they had pretty much portrayed Rafa like a complete basket case. 

“You did what?! You didn't tell me!”

“You didn't ask. And it isn't exactly like we told a lie. You were not okay, not by a long shot.”

“But I didn't have a breakdown!”

“What would you call it then? A tantrum?”

Carlos kept his voice gentle and he still had that overly cheery look on his face that didn't fit with the words that came out of his mouth. He had a point though. Calling it a tantrum instead of a breakdown didn't sound exactly better. Rafa still had a hard time making sense of what had happened yesterday. The most accurate description was probably some kind of panic attack. He hadn't been okay... and he still didn't feel good about himself when it came to his reaction yesterday. It scared him how little control he had over his own reaction and how hard it was to even comprehend what had happened to him. 

“No! It's... I... I don't know.”

“You should come up with a good answer then. Press will want one.”

“Alright, fine. I'll do that. And then we'll go and watch a match.”

Rafa hated the idea of having to face the press but he nodded in agreement anyway. He knew his team had done everything in their power to help him out yesterday and they deserved for him to be professional about this, especially as he had decided he wanted to stay and they were all along for the ride. He couldn't keep going t the tournament grounds without explaining himself. He would do what needed to be done and Carlos seemed a lot more willing to go along with Rafa's plans for the day now that this was taken care of. 

“Whose match?”

“Roger's.”

“Why him of all people?”

Rafa had given the answer without actually thinking about it. He wasn't exactly sure what possessed him to decide like this. There were a lot of other matches today, a lot to choose from but ever since Roger had come to see him and had tried to apologize, the older man had never completely left Rafa's thoughts. It was probably the reason why he had decided he wanted to see Roger play. It wasn't just that though. After all these months away from the tour, Rafa wanted to see for himself if there was some aspect of what had happened in Paris that had an impact on Roger's game. But he didn't tell that to Carlos. He shrugged instead.

“Why not. He's good. Nice to watch.”

“Yeah. That's about his only redeeming quality.”

“Carlos...”

Rafa could sympathize with Carlos. After all the older man had a very strong opinion when it came to Roger. Carlos was still so damn sure that Roger had known what would happen and had kept it to himself on purpose. As much as it had made sense to Rafa when Carlos had first told him, now – after speaking to Roger in person – he wasn't so sure anymore... The sudden outburst that happened next didn't come unexpected but it still made Rafa flinch. 

“He set you up!”

“Actually you don't know that.”

“How would you... What?”

“He came to talk to me. Two nights ago.”

Rafa didn't dare to look at Carlos when he told him about the encounter with Roger. He hadn't tol anybody about this until now – not his team, not his family back home. Mainly because he still wasn't sure himself what to make of that conversation with the Swiss. Rafa was sure Carlos wouldn't appreciate having been left in the dark about this meeting until now. His coach was surprisingly calm though given how strongly he felt about Roger and his involvement in Rafa's injury.

“To tell you what?”

“A lot of incoherent banter and an attempt at an apology.”

“Which you shut down I hope.”

“Yes. I did.”

“You don't sound happy about it.”

“I don't know how to feel about it to be honest. Let's just go and see the match.”

Before they had gone to Center Court, his team had organized the chance for Rafa to finally talk to the press himself. It hadn't exactly been a press conference but more of a statement send out to a group of journalists at one of the conference rooms at the tournament side under the strict condition that there would be no additional questions allowed. Rafa had been a lot more honest than he wanted to be but then again he simply hadn't been able to come up with a convincing lie or had wanted to for that matter. 

Of course he kept the information vague, telling them there had been a mental problem that had kept him from competing, that it was under control and a side effect of the not yet completed recovery, that he would work on it and he was sure it wouldn't happen again. He thanked the tournament officials for their patients, understanding and their hospitality in allowing him to stay, thanked the media for their attention and then he left. The whole thing was over in less than ten minutes and Rafa actually felt pretty good about himself afterwards. Ready to indulge in some hopefully good tennis to watch for his afternoon activities.

Somehow the fact that Center Curt would be full of people and that they would be sitting courtside which meant there was a whole stadium of strangers behind him had eluded Rafa until the point when he was actually there. He couldn't very well leave now. It wasn't polite and it would only raise new questions from both fans and press if he... ran away again. But he felt uncomfortable with all these people around and he wasn't sure he would be able to concentrate on the match. Suddenly there was a hand on his shoulder and Rafa couldn't help but wince. He needed a moment to realize it was Carlos and he was concerned. 

“Would you like for me to sit behind you?”

“Yes please.”

They settled down and Rafa felt a little bit better knowing he had Carlos right there behind him – somebody he knew and trusted. He still felt nervous and apprehensive but he was sure the feeling would subside a little once the match was actually underway. Having Carlos there and in a helpful and sensitive mood definitely was a good thing to calm his nerves. Rafa half turned to take a look at his coach and friend, genuine gratitude clearly audible in his voice.

“Thank you, Carlos.”

“Don't mention it, kid.”

The players were introduced to the court a couple of minutes later and the warm-up went underway. Roger was on the other side of the court for that and Rafa was actually grateful for the fact. He wasn't sure how the older man would feel about him being here and given the fact that Roger would be on the other side of the court for the first games he probably wouldn't realize Rafa was here. Once the match was underway, Roger would be focused on that and certainly wouldn't risk a second glance at the stands. It was what Rafa hoped for. He wanted to be here, wanted to see Roger play but he certainly didn't want the other man to know he was here. 

Roger was first to serve and won that first service game comfortably. The changeover afterwards left Rafa with the distinct wish to be able to simply become invisible until Roger was back at the baseline and his opponents service game had started. He knew it was stupid and overly sensitive and maybe even a little arrogant to believe his presence could have any kind of impact on the other man's game but he couldn't help the sentiment. When Roger walked passed them to get to the baseline, his gaze was wandering and for the tiniest of seconds Rafa was sure the Swiss had faltered in his step. Roger had seen him, Rafa was sure of it.

Roger's opponent was easily able to hold serve through his own service game but Roger's previous confidence on his own serve seemed to have suddenly vanished. The third game of the set went to deuce, then advantage was with Roger's opponent and then the break happened. Rafa was shifting in his seat uncomfortably. He couldn't help te feeling that this had something to do with the fact that Roger had seen him sitting there and knew he was being watched. Rafa turned back to Carlos, whispering to him.

“He seems preoccupied, don’t you think?”

“Maybe a little. It's definitely not his best tennis out there.”

It didn't get exactly better after the next changeover. The physical distance being wider now seemed to help somewhat for Roger to gain both confidence and concentration back but both his own and his opponents serve went to deuce but eventually both of them held serve. Carlos hadn't been wrong saying it wasn't Rogers best tennis. There had been an uncharacteristically high percentage of both unforced errors and first serves missed so far. They were at 3:2 with Roger's opponent up one break when they changed sides again. 

This time both men held serve comfortably again but throughout the next changeover and Roger's service game nothing seemed to work properly. He made easy mistakes, managed only one of the first serves to actually end up within the lines and it all added up to yet another break for Roger's opponent. The first set ended 6:4 with Roger on the loosing side. It wasn't exactly a disaster yet but it was definitely not what Rafa had expected. Having a chance to talk to Carlos in the time between sets, Rafa left no doubt how uncomfortable he felt, very much sure it had been a bad idea to come here in the first place.

“I think we should leave...”

“You wanted to be here, remember.”

“I think I'm distracting him...”

“Rafa, don't take this the wrong way but you have way too high an opinion of yourself. Roger is a multi times Grand Slam champion and a professional through and through. He knows how to handle pressure and he certainly won't allow himself to get distracted by one particular person of several thousands in the stands of his match.”

“Then why the bad performance?”

“I don't know. Maybe it's the weather or the court conditions or he isn't feeling well or he simply has a bad day. There are a lot of explanations and you are not one of them. So just stay in your seat, relax and watch the match.”

It was good advice and Carlos being so level headed about the whole thing helped Rafa gain perspective. The older man was right. Roger was nothing if not professional and for Rafa to believe he could actually have any impact on Rogers game was definitely a tiny bit arrogant. It was just one set and two breaks Roger was down. It weren't exactly the best set of circumstances but nothing was lost yet. Whatever it was that had left Roger so rattled during parts of the first set, te time between sets seemed to have given him a chance to collect his thoughts and find his composure again.

The quality of tennis Roger played got better, the first serve percentage went up, the number of unforced errors went down and his concentration seemed to be back to normal. It was actually exactly what Rafa had hoped for the match to be from there on out. It was nice tennis to watch and with every game Roger won, Rafa felt less and less like he shouldn't be here. In he end Roger won the match in four sets.

   
*later that same day - evening*  
   
Roger had been very much aware of Rafa's presence at the match and he had been extremely surprised to see the younger man there. After Rafa's withdrawal from his 1st round match, Roger had been pretty sure the Spaniard would leave and go back to Mallorca. But obviously Rafa and his team had other plans. It was Rafa's decision after all and Roger didn't mind him being there but it had disrupted his game for a little while. Realizing it was a good thing Rafa was still here was what had helped Roger to regain composure and it had also helped him to make an important decision.

When all of his post match responsibilities had been dealt with for the day, Roger had decided to go and talk to Rafa again, hopefully able to convince him to agree to that meeting with Charlotte he wanted the younger man to have. Roger knew it wouldn’t be pleasant to do this yet again and he half expected Rafa to either throw the door in his face right away or simply not answer at all as he knocked. But neither of those things happened. Rafa did answer but it was clear to see he wasn't pleased about his visitor.  
   
“You again...”

“Look, I know you don't want to talk to me and I know you probably hate me, which you have every right to. But just give me a moment. Please?”  
   
“What do you want, Roger?”  
   
Roger took it as a good sign that Rafa had neither yelled nor had told him to go. Instead of answering the Spaniards question, Roger pulled a business card from his back pocket and handed it to Rafa. There was a curious look on the other man' face as he studied the small card, most definitely because of the vague job description Charlotte had put on those cards. She had told Roger time and again she was no therapist and the business card stated 'counselor'. Rafa's expression was unreadable and Roger didn't like it. He would have liked to be able to see in the younger man's expression how he felt about the idea of seeing a therapist... But at least it seemed Roger had managed to capture Rafa's interest.

“What is this?”  
   
“She's a... therapist. A good one. And I think you should seriously consider seeing her. She... she can help. Believe me. I know.”  
   
“How?”  
   
“I went to see her in Cincinnati. That’s where she lives.”  
   
“Do you want me to leave so badly?”  
   
“What? No! I'm glad you're still here. I saw you at the match today...”

Rafa didn't say anything about the match and his presence there in response. It seemed he didn't want to talk about it and Roger certainly didn't plan to push the younger man. Roger didn't mind the accusation in Rafa's words either. Giving him the business card of a therapist in Cincinnati had to look a lot like Roger was trying to get rid of him, he understood that. But of course it wasn't the case and Roger hurried to explain.

“That therapist, I already talked to her. She would be willing to come here if need be.”  
   
“You talk to that woman on my behalf without asking me?”  
   
“I just wanted to make sure she would be okay with this. She’s kind of… special.”  
   
“Special how?”

Roger took a moment to consider his next words carefully. He knew he needed to be honest and allow Rafa a glimpse into his own psyche if he wanted the Spaniard to agree to a meeting with Charlotte. He needed to tell Rafa that Charlotte had been helping him which in turn meant to tell him he had been in need of a therapist after what had happened in Paris. What he did tell Rafa however was a rather vague retelling of the facts. He didn't dare to be anymore open hearted and emotional, not given how guarded and fragile their relationship was at the moment.  
   
“She helped me get better for starters. I know you don’t want to hear any of this and I don’t mean to burden you but I wasn’t exactly in a good place after what happened in Paris…”  
   
“Me neither.”  
   
Hearing Rafa admit to the way he had been after the attack so matter of factly felt like a kick to the gut. Roger needed a moment to swallow down the lump forming in his throat before he was able to react. The only thing he came up with in response was yet another admission of guilt. But his apology was left standing there and Rafa changed the subject instead. Actually Roger was grateful for it. He could concentrate on the facts that way instead of the overabundance of negative emotion that still stood between them.   
   
“I know… I’m so sorry…”  
   
“How will this work? I call her?”  
   
“Actually I would call her. I made a promise to get her accommodated if you agreed to meet with her.”  
   
“Why?”  
   
“Because she thinks it’s all just a ploy to get her here and help me during the tournament. She declined that offer before I came here and now she feels I found a loophole.”  
   
It had been meant as a light hearted joke and Roger had tried a smile but had failed miserably at it. His words did nothing to relieve the tension of the situation or make either him nor Rafa feel any better. They were still both awkward and tense and if anything, Rafa seemed to think Roger actually had admitted to acting selfish just here and now. It had to be expected that the younger man would question his motivation for doing this. After all Roger had no right or reason to intervene on Rafa's behalf and bestow a therapist upon him.

“Did you?”  
   
“No. At least that wasn’t my intention. This isn’t about me.”

There was a very soft huff from Rafa that made it all too clear he didn't fully believe the Swiss. Roger didn't mind. Rafa had every right to be suspicious around him. Maybe the way they were acting around one another, unable to really talk or show even a sliver of trust would get better once Charlotte had put some things into perspective for Rafa. But in order to do so he had to get the younger man to finally agree to a meeting. Roger tried to pry ever so lightly. He wanted an answer and it seemed Rafa was willing to indulge in the idea. 

“Can I... can I call her for you?”

“Yes.”


	42. Difficult questions

*2 days later – early evening* 

It had been a stupid idea, a bad decision and a moment of complete mental derangement and Rafa still wasn't sure how he had let any of this happen. He had allowed Roger to make an appointment with a therapist on his behalf, a therapist the Swiss was seeing as well... No matter how sincere Roger had sounded, Rafa was still hung up on the fact that the older man had pretty much admitted he was doing this for himself as well. He had found a way to get the therapist here because he needed her and now Rafa was supposed to talk to a woman who would probably carry his feelings and worries and insecurities right back to Roger... It had been a stupid, stupid idea.

Unfortunately it was one he couldn't get out of anymore. The therapist had agreed to the proposal and she was already in New York. Canceling the appointment now would be both tremendously rude and unfair to her. As much as Rafa was still suspicious towards Roger's motivation in all this, he wholeheartedly believed the therapist had his best interest at heart. She didn't know him, had no involvement in the situation that made dealing with Roger so awkward and above all she was a professional. She certainly meant him no harm.

It showed in the fact that she had agreed to come to his hotel suite instead of finding a different, less informal option and Rafa had been grateful for that. It had been the main reason to agree to a meeting. Within the confines of his own hotel room he felt relatively safe. He knew logically that it made no difference, that it depended on the woman's personality, if he liked her or not and the kind of questions she would ask, but still within this room which was his home away from home for the time of the tournament he felt a little less apprehensive. 

A knock on the door announced the therapist's arrival and that all overwhelming feeling of dread about this whole thing started to settle in Rafa's stomach, making him feel uneasy. Opening the door on her Rafa was pretty sure the woman standing there had the wrong room and was there by mistake. She was dressed casually in a long burgundy summer skirt and a sleeveless dark blue top, her hair loosely falling over her shoulders. There were prominent scars on both her arms he had a hard time not to stare at but the warm smile on her face made it easier to concentrate on her facial features. She was way younger than he had expected, from the looks of it probably about the same age as him and she seemed completely relaxed. Nothing about her had the feeling of a doctor.

“Miss Montgomery?”

“Please call me Charlotte. 'Miss Montgomery' is reserved for bank appointments and visits to authorities. I should probably come in, right? This is not a conversation to be had in passing.”

“You speak Spanish... Roger didn't tell me...”

Rafa had been more than a little surprised when the woman with her rather fair features and the dark blonde hair had addressed him in his native tongue. She was fluent, the accent to her words distinctly South American and sounded comfortable speaking the language. Not like somebody who had a couple of years education in school and was now trying to reach for what little memory of the language still remained. She was able to hold a conversation, Rafa was pretty sure of that, and it surprised him. The therapist – Charlotte – shrugged her shoulders in response. 

“That's because he didn't know. It wasn't necessary with him and he didn't come to me to learn anything about me. I thought it would be easier for you this way...”

“How...”

“Chilean grandparents. I used to spend a lot of time with them as a child. That's how I learned and I sort of stuck with it getting older. It's the second most spoken language in the US after all. It helps to be fluent, especially within my occupational field. Maybe we should sit? Outside would be nice. It's still warm.”

She didn't wait for him to agree but pushed past him and to the sliding doors leading outside to the balcony. There was a barely visible limp to the way she walked and Rafa realized he was staring at her again. He followed after he as she opened the doors and stepped outside, letting the warm late evening summer breeze in. When he stepped outside after her she had already settled in one of the deck chairs but Rafa couldn't bring himself to sit down. He was way too nervous to sit still for any extended period of time.

He kept pacing the length of the balcony instead, his focus on the city skyline. He had no idea how to start a conversation with this friendly and so far pleasant stranger who had come here to dig through his mind and probe him about his feelings. He didn't have to turn back to her to know that she was watching him. He could feel it. He could hear a soft chuckle coming from her and finally stopped his nervous walk, turned around and could see her smile, mild amusement visible on her face. 

“There's no need to be nervous. I won't bite. I might ask a couple of difficult questions though.”

“Like what?”

Rafa hadn't been able not to react to the confrontational tone of voice the woman had used and he regretted to have asked the very moment the words were out of his mouth. He knew he was setting himself up and had practically invited her to come up with a probing, uncomfortable question he knew he wouldn't have an answer for. She didn't disappoint in that regard, that much was for sure. The time for pleasantries and getting to know each other a little was obviously over. She went straight to the point. 

“Like why did you not play your first round match?”

“I couldn't.”

“That's not an answer. Actually that's a worse answer than you gave to the press. How was it... A mental problem as a side effect of an incomplete recovery that you are still working on and believe to have under control. That was what kept you from competing. It's the lamest description of 'I had a panic attack' that I've ever heard.”

“I did not...”

He never got a chance to finish the few words of denial that came from his mouth without actually thinking about it. He was so used to telling people not to worry, that he was fine and that it was all just a process of returning back to normal that took time and effort. But Charlotte wasn't having any of it and she wasn't very polite about it either. The way she cut him off was irritating to say the least. After all she was here upon his invitation, not to talk but to listen to him. It made Rafa immediately defensive but if she picked up on it or minded, Charlotte didn't let it show.

“Call it a flashback then or a breakdown. The fact remains that what happened to you in Paris came back to bite you in the ass. Which is why I'm here in the first place, is it not?”

“You are here because Roger asked me to see you.”

“And you usually listen to what Roger has to say, especially since you were attacked?!”

There was a mild tone of mockery to her words and Rafa had no answer for her. He knew she was right. He hadn't agreed to this meeting simply because Roger had asked him to. He couldn't care less what Roger wanted or thought what was good for him. He had agreed to this meeting because what had happened before his 1st round match had been a wake-up call and a clear indicator that he needed some kind of help. But even knowing that, he simply couldn't admit to the facts.   
   
“You blame him, don't you?”  
   
“Who?”  
   
“Do we really have to do this? Play dumb? We both know who I'm talking about. You do blame Roger for what happened to you?”  
   
“No.”

It wasn't a lie, not completely anyway. Rafa certainly didn't blame Roger for the attack but he blamed the Swiss for not even trying to stop it in the first place. Once it had happened, Roger had been there for him, had helped him and had probably saved his life in the process. But that didn't change the fact that he had let it happen in the first place. Of course Charlotte seemed to be seeing right through his attempt at deflection and the uneasy feeling that having her here had been a bad idea only grew.   
   
“Of course you do.”  
   
“I shouldn't have done this. I shouldn't have listened...”  
   
“Why? Because I hit a nerve?”

She sounded so arrogant in that moment, so sure of herself and so unwilling to realize Rafa was about to cut this conversation short and throw her out, he couldn't help the anger that was bubbling up at her blatant display of ignorance to how awkward he felt right now. That anger left him completely open and vulnerable, unable to contain his emotions and he pretty much hurled them at her in accusation as a result.   
   
“Because you know nothing! You know nothing about me, you know nothing about what happened to me and you have no idea how I feel!”  
   
“I have a very good idea of how you feel. You can believe that.”  
   
“Sure. You can tell me whatever you want...”

Instead of answering him and explaining her words to him, Charlotte did something odd. She pushed up the hem of her skirt up to her knees. There was scarring on her right leg just like on her arms but where the left leg was supposed to be something that looked like a carbon based piece of metal seemed to be sticking out of her from the knee downwards. Rafa swallowed hard and stared at the artificial appendage, Charlotte's words barely registering.  
   
“See?”  
   
“What is that?”  
   
“It's a special prosthetic. For running.”  
   
“I... I don't understand.”  
   
“I was at Boston Marathon.”

All of a sudden a lot of things about Charlotte made sense to him. The scars on her arms, the limp in her step and her open, almost brazen way of talking about flashbacks and panic attacks and other clear signs of PTSD after a severe trauma. She could talk about it like that because she had gone through the very same thing... She hadn't been lying to him when she had said that she knew... Probably better than anyone. The nervous energy that had kept Rafa on his feet until now evaporated all of a sudden. He needed to sit down, unable to react, to come up with a single word to say. He simply stared at Charlotte as she continued with her tale of horror...  
   
“Apart from the leg, I was pretty cut up. As you can see I have a bunch of scars to show for it but I guess I’m not the only veteran when it comes to that.”  
   
“Why are you telling me this?”

Rafa had finally found his voice again but it sounded raw and hollow to his own ears. Charlotte had pushed the hem of her skirt back down, the scars and prosthetic disappearing from view again. Rafa looked back at her face, but it betrayed no emotion except for a small, knowing smile. Charlotte was a medical professional, a therapist, supposed to keep a certain distance from the people she treated. There had been no need for her to reveal anything about herself but she had done it anyway. Rafa wanted to understand why.   
   
“To prove my point. I know how you feel. I can relate. I’ve been through all this myself.”  
   
“It’s not the same.”   
   
“No, of course not. You’re better off I think. At least nobody tried to blow you to pieces...”

There was a very soft grin on her face now but Rafa could see no humor in the situation. He knew the attack on the marathon Charlotte was talking about had been a bombing and that it had happened more than six years ago. Unlike with him, Charlotte's memories weren't as fresh and she had more time to process what had happened to her. He wondered if it had been easier for her, knowing she hadn't been a designated target or if being chosen at random had made it harder for her... It was a difficult thought to ponder and he pushed it away as soon as he felt the all too familiar feeling of panic bubbling up. He shook his head at her almost cheeky response, unable to feel as light hearted about the awful topic as Charlotte obviously did.   
   
“No. They stabbed me in the back instead, leaving me to bleed to death with thousands of people watching...”  
   
“Okay, call it a draw then.”

This time a hard laugh escaped his lips but there was no humor to it. It was a little like swapping war stories, deciding who deserved their commemoration more judging by the horrors they had been forced to go through. It was a strange approach but not an unwelcome one. Charlotte was the very first person he ever talked to about this, who didn't treat him like he was some sort of porcelain doll that needed to be handled with the utmost care and gentleness. She had no reason to though. From everything she had just told him, she knew exactly what he was going through. There was no reason for her to be careful. That didn't mean Rafa actually wanted to talk to her about any of this, especially not in that matter of fact way. He tried to change the subject, out of curiosity as much as driven by the wish to give this conversation a different direction. Thankfully Charlotte went along with it.  
   
“Roger comes to see you as well?”  
   
“Yes.”  
   
“I didn't think you were allowed to tell me.”  
   
“Well, I'm not a therapist. Not in the strictest sense of the word. I'm a... counselor. I don't have doctor-patient-privileges to abide by. So yeah, I can tell you.”  
   
Rafa was honestly surprised by her answer. He briefly returned to his earlier worries that Charlotte would tell Roger about him and his feelings as well if she was talking about Roger so freely with him. Then again he really wanted to know what had possessed the Swiss to see a therapist. It wasn't that Rafa couldn't imagine Paris had been hard for Roger as well. After all he had sat there with him, trying to keep him from bleeding out... But the older man hadn't been injured and Rafa failed to see the trauma that had Roger in need of a therapist. 

“Why does he come?”  
   
“He's having a hard time dealing with what happened that day when you were attacked... and with the unfortunate role he played in it all.”  
   
“What does that mean?”  
   
“I really don't want to go into detail but let's just say he isn't coping too well.”

“Why wouldn't he? He wasn't hurt.”  
   
“Sometimes bystanders, witnesses are hit just as hard by the horrors unfolding around them as the ones who get actually, physically hurt. We – the victims – we barely ever remember. I know I don't and from everything I've gathered, you don't either. Roger does.”  
   
Rafa wasn't sure how to react to that. To him it still seemed utterly ridiculous that somebody who simply had been there, who hadn't been attacked himself, who hadn't even been hurt in the process and who – above all – could be held responsible for the events unfolding, could feel so utterly devastated as a result. It was probably dependent on the individual person and he had no idea how he would have reacted had the tides been turned but still it seemed odd to Rafa. Charlotte continued, trying to explain it to him by using a different example – a depressing and very personal one at that.   
   
“I had a fiance, you know. He was there that day, waited for me at the finish line and had to watch it all happen. He was there even before the first responders got to me. He saw up close and personal how that bomb ripped the leg off my body, had to listen to me scream in agony. It messed him up... big time. He had nightmares, flashbacks, panic attacks... and he didn't talk to anybody. He was solely focused on caring for me... And when I woke up and I couldn't remember what had happened to me, he got worse... He killed himself. Four months after. It was the very first day I was back on my own... on my feet. He jumped off a bridge...”  
   
“I'm sorry...”  
   
“Yes, I know. Everybody is. I wasn't. I was angry. For a long time. Until it finally dawned on me that I was angry because I felt abandoned... But it was the other way around. I had been so preoccupied with my own pain and devastation, I never even realized how bad things were for him... It's my biggest regret to this day. I wasn't able to safe him. That's why I'm doing this. Trying to help others where I couldn't help him. It's the only way I could think of to make amends...”

Rafa nodded at that, understanding the sentiment completely. He knew he had been the same for a while, only able to deal with his own pain and fear, unable to relate to what others had gone through while he had been injured and unconscious. He knew it had been a very difficult time for his family and he still felt badly about it. He had never considered that it might be just as hard for Roger... He didn't allow the thought to linger though. As much as Roger had been affected by what had happened, it still didn't change the fact that he held a certain responsibility and Rafa couldn't simply ignore that. His question was focused on Charlotte instead and he was pretty sure he knew the answer and that made him like Charlotte all the more. Just like him it seemed she was unwilling to give up in the face of adversity, even if it was hard and at times seemed impossible to achieve. He turned out to be right.   
   
“Why do you have that special... leg? The one for running?”  
   
“I want to do the marathon again. But I haven't had the guts yet to actually go through with it. Even the thought of seeing that finish line again... It scares me senseless...”  
   
“I know how that feels...”

She didn't respond, which was probably the first time since they had started this conversation. Looking at her there was an expectant expression on her face. She was waiting for him to continue, to explain what he had meant by his words. Rafa suppressed a sigh. He had started with this line of thought now it seemed it was only fair to finish it and answer her initital question about his first round match in the process as well.   
   
“I... I tried... I wanted to play here at the US Open. I was sure I was ready. I was at the stadium, ready to go out on court, ready to play my first match since... since Paris...”  
   
“And you couldn't?”  
   
He nodded his head yes slowly, unable to actually form the word. Rafa needed a moment to find his composure before he was able to explain what had happened in more detail without actually using the words mental breakdown or panic attack. Charlotte let it slide that he lied to her yet again. He knew fully well why he hadn’t been able to go out there but this probably wasn’t the time to call him out on it. He had been more open about the events in Paris and how he was affected by it and felt about it all than Charlotte had ever expected.   
   
“I was scared... and I don't even know why. I just know I can't do it...”  
   
“You don't have to...”  
   
“But I WANT to. I want to compete again, I want to return to the tour. But how am I going to do this if I am afraid of stepping out on court?! How am I going to play a match if I'm afraid what happened in Paris will happen again?”  
   
“Mind over matter. You find a way to trick your body into believing everything's fine.”

It was a very vague statement that seemed very out of place. So far Charlotte had been very accurate and on the point with everything she had said, so much so that it almost physically hurt to talk to her. This however seemed like some pseudo medical mantra out of a self help book. Rafa couldn't help but raise an eyebrow at her for the strange advice and hoped to get a more detailed answer from her that was actually helpful and usable in an every day situation. He really would have liked a guide to getting over his anxiety when it came to stepping back out into a stadium full of people...   
   
“How?”  
   
“In theory you take three steps. One – remind yourself it's unlikely if not impossible to happen again, two – always have an exit strategy, a way to get the hell out of Dodge if push comes to shove, three – make sure there's no threat, develop some sort of routine that allows you to check your surroundings before focusing on the task at hand.”  
   
“Why did you say in theory?”  
   
“Well I'm still working on step one, which is why I haven't had the guts to do the marathon again. But from everything I heard about you, you might be a lot more disciplined and mentally stronger than I am. Maybe you can put theory into practice.”

There was an encouraging smile on her face, one that made it very clear she truly believed he could do what she had been unable to so far. It was flattering and daunting at the same time. Charlotte changed the subject again now and did what Rafa had expected her to do all along. She tried to push him into doing something not for himself but for her other patient, something Rafa wasn't sure he wanted or even could do. He couldn't deny that Charlotte had a point about it all though. If he and Roger wanted a chance to stop feeling awkward and insecure around one another they needed a true heart to heart...   
   
“Now I know you don’t want to hear this and I know it sounds like a ploy to help out one of my other patients but please go talk to Roger. Properly this time. This thing between you two, the attack, the letter, Roger’s unfortunate decision not to attend to the whole thing sooner, you need to talk about that and finally get it all out in the open. Talk. You both need it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As these two chapters sort of tie in together, I decided to post them together as well.
> 
> Hope you liked them and it all makes sense.


	43. Baby steps

*Later on that same evening* 

Roger had been nervous all evening long and being honest with himself he had no reason to be. He knew Charlotte was talking with Rafa right now or at least he hoped that was what she was doing. He had no idea how the Spaniard would react to Charlotte's confrontational approach when it came to admitting ones feelings about the trauma they had gone through. If Rafa was as unwilling to admit to certain facts as Roger had been, he could very well imagine the younger man throwing Charlotte out instead of talking to her.

Roger hoped Charlotte had found a way to get through to Rafa. For his sake as much as Rogers. He knew he would feel better about his own involvement if Rafa had Charlotte's help. Not that it meant he was off the hook or suddenly not responsible any more. But at least this way he had been a tiny part of the help Rafa needed... It was probably time to leave those thoughts that were running wild in his mind and had kept him from feeling even remotely tired until now behind. It was past eleven pm and his wife had already gone to bed half an hour ago. Roger knew it was about time he followed her. He was on his way to the bathroom to get ready for bed when there was a very soft knock on the door that left him thinking he had misheard for just a moment. 

He could have ignored it, put it on his addled brain that was playing tricks on him especially because the knock didn't come a second time. But something told Roger it was better to be sure, which made him check anyway. He pulled the door open just a little and opened it fully, completely surprised and taken aback by his late night visitor. It surprised him so much he had a hard time coming up with a verbal reaction.

„Rafa… What… Would you like to come in?“  
   
Roger needed a moment to recollect himself enough to realize he was being rude. Of course the presence of the other man at his hotel room, practically in the middle of the night, surprised him, but it was no reason to be rude. Rafa nodded in response but didn’t verbalize his answer. Remembering his duties as a host Roger stepped out of the way, opening the door a little wider in the process and allowing the younger man into his hotel room. He watched closely as Rafa stepped over the threshold. His movements were measured, guarded even, like he expected some kind of attack. Roger suppressed a sigh and tried to come up with something to say to make Rafa feel more at ease and welcome here.  
   
“Can I… get you something? Something to drink maybe?”  
   
Rafa looked at him for a long moment before shaking his head. He had yet to say anything and it was pretty unnerving to have him just standing there, unannounced, uninvited really and just look at Roger. He felt uncomfortable under the scrutiny and he couldn’t help the nervousness that made it very hard not to fidget or babble. He still had no idea what the Spaniard was doing here… A quick sweep across the room had Roger's gaze focused on the couch for just a moment. Maybe it was a good idea to get comfortable instead of standing here like two marble statues. He made an inviting gesture towards the piece of furniture.   
   
“We could sit.”  
   
“Do you have a balcony?”  
   
The question took Roger by surprise. He could understand the need for space though, for a touch of fresh air and a breeze on the skin. Being in this room while talking to Rafa felt constricting for him already and this was his room, his territory. He could only imagine how much worse it had to be for the Spaniard. He gestured to the end of the main room where the glass doors lead outside.   
   
“Yes. Through there…”

Rafa didn't wait for him to go ahead but stepped through the room. Roger followed, leaving a few paces between them, not wanting to crowed the younger man. He could hear Rafa take a deep breath as soon as he stepped outside and it seemed he actually relaxed his shoulders and back just a tiny little bit, some of the tension draining away. Roger still felt nervous and awkward about this impromptu visit, trying his hardest to make sure Rafa was comfortable. He didn’t get a chance to finish his question though. Rafa who was standing at the railing of the balcony with his back on him, wasn’t looking at him, his gaze fixed on the glittering skyline of the city.  
   
“Is this better? Are you... “

“Tell me about the letter, Roger.”  
   
Roger's first instinct told him to be defensive, to explain in detail and defend himself for what had happened. But he fought it down. Rafa hadn’t come here to blame him, hadn’t come to accuse him of anything. If that had been his intention there probably would have been a lot more yelling instead of measured silence up to this point. Rafa simply wanted answers and Roger did what he never had a chance to do before. He spoke about the letter calmly, with all his thoughts and emotions collected and relaying every last detail to the man who had been hurt so badly by the writer of that letter.  
   
He spoke for a long time and Rafa never once interrupted him. But he never once turned to look at him during his lengthy monologue either but kept staring off into the distance. When Roger finally finished there was a long moment of silence, a silence so complete he could actually hear Rafa breathing over the soft evening wind of the New York night. When he finally turned to face him, neither his face nor his tone of voice betrayed any emotion.  
   
“You didn’t know before.”  
   
“No. No I didn’t.”

Rafa didn't say anything for a long time. He was simply looking at Roger and as unnerving as that scrutiny was, he tried to stay calm. Rafa seemed to be searching for some sign of dishonesty in his facial features to decide how to make up his mind about all this. All Roger felt however was tension. He was looking for absolution, for Rafa to show even a sliver of trust towards him. The silence dragged on and finally Roger couldn't take it any more. He knew this was not about him and what he needed but he needed some sort of reaction from the younger man. Anything was better than this loaded silence. Rafa inevitably being the person that he was, didn’t just leave him standing there with the uncertainty eating away at him any longer.  
   
“Do… do you believe me?”  
   
“Yes. I believe you.”  
   
Roger had a hard time not to breathe a sigh of relief. He had wanted this, had craved it with all his heart. He had wanted Rafa to tell him that he wasn’t at fault and that there was no need to feel guilty. But as the Spaniard had told him almost a week ago, this wasn’t about how he felt. Roger knew he had no right to ask for any kind of absolution but still he couldn't help it. He wanted to hear that this conversation had been helpful, that things would finally get back to normal and that Rafa was willing to forgive him and try – if not to be a friend – to be at ease with him again. Of course matters weren't that easy – not after everything that had happened. 

“Are... are we okay?”

“I don't know. I don't think so. It's hard to understand. For a long time I was sure you had a part in this. That you did it on purpose... I know now that you didn't but I need time to understand you were a... victim as well...”

“I'm so sorry about all this. I... I should have come and talked to you as soon as you were better. I should have explained, I should have been honest...”

“It wasn't your responsibility to call. It was mine. I owe you...”

The words caused a cold hard knot to form in Roger's stomach and it was made worse by the fact that Rafa looked genuinely sorry. The last thing Roger had ever wanted was for Rafa to feel obligated or like he was somehow indebted to Roger. Nothing Roger had done on that day back in Paris deserved any kind of gratefulness or the feeling Rafa needed to do something for him in return to make up for Roger's help. Roger shook his head forcefully, trying his hardest to get his point across. 

“You owe me nothing. I did what needed to be done, what anyone else would have done. And I could have stopped it all if only I had listened to my media manager before the final. I can't change what happened but I'll never stop feeling guilty for it.”

“I feel the same. For listening to Carlos, for believing what he told me and not even giving you a chance to tell me your side... I was wrong and I'm sorry.”

“Don't be. I have no idea how I would have handled this whole thing had the roles been reversed but I'm pretty sure I would have handled it badly. Even worse than I did now... It's okay, you know... I'm just... I'm glad we got a chance to talk about this properly. Clear the air. I feel better now...”

Roger actually breathed a sigh of relief and allowed a small smile to spread on his face. For him finally having a real conversation with Rafa in earnest had been good and helpful. Judging from the forlorn expression on Rafa's face - unlike for him - this conversation didn't seem to hold the same kind of catharsis for the Spaniard. It was understandable to a certain degree. The younger man had received the answers he had been searching for but after believing in a truth for so long that was entirely different from the actual facts, it was expected that he felt lost and unsure. Having talked to one another left Roger feeling a lot better than it did Rafa and Roger truly wished he could make it easier for the younger man. Unfortunately he couldn't change the facts or the way Rafa felt about them. 

“I feel confused.”  
   
“That's understandable, I guess. So… What now?”  
   
“Now I leave.”

It wasn't the answer Roger had expected but it wasn't exactly a surprising decision. They had talked about what they needed to, the major problem of what had kept them from interacting with one another over the course of the last couple of weeks revealed. Rafa had gotten his answers, Roger had gotten the absolution he had been looking for and with that everything was said. After all it was late and they were both emotionally spend. 

Roger accompanied Rafa to the door where they exchanged a few awkward words of goodbye and then the younger man was gone. Watching the door close softly behind him, Roger couldn't help but feel like had was already in bed, deeply asleep and this had just been some very strange dream. But even if it was it was a good thing. Because it would have been the first time in months Rafa would have appeared in his dreams and had not blamed him, had not put the guilt on him and Roger had not woken up rattled and bathed in cold sweat... Dream or not – this was a good thing. It was progress.


	44. A nice gesture

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm aware this chapter is kind of pointless.  
> in RL Rafa probably wouldn't have any kind of problem to organize practice like this for himself.  
> But that's why it's fiction. And it adds some much needed calm moments :-P
> 
> Hope you like it anyway
> 
> <>°O°<>

*New York – sixth day of the US Open*  
   
Roger had been uneasy and tense for quite a while now and he knew he needed to get this under control. The thought that he needed to do something in order for Rafa to feel just as relieved and relaxed as he did now that they had finally talked about it all had been nagging at him ever since the Spaniard had left the night before. It had been so distracting, it had almost cost him his 3rd round match. He wanted to do something nice for the younger man – not out of obligation or guilt but just because he could.

He had come up with an idea and had been surprised how little adversity there had been. Of course it hadn't been a walk in the park exactly and it had taken pull and charm to get the tournament officials to agree but in the end he had gotten what he wanted. The one thing he still needed now was a confidante on Rafa's team to set his plan into motion and that was the major problem right now. The one person he knew the best and had the most dealings with in the past was Carlos and Carlos hated him...

But this wasn't about how Carlos felt about him and how uncomfortable it would be to implore the other man's help. This was about being nice and helpful and doing something for Rafa in return for him being willing to finally give Roger a chance to explain himself and feel better about himself in the process. He had and easier time now, his peace of mind somewhat restored and Roger wanted the same for Rafa. 

Finding Carlos wasn't exactly the problem. The tournament grounds weren't exactly small but there were only so many places for players and their teams to pass the time. Finding the right moment and a quiet surrounding without other people listening in on their conversation was a little trickier. And finding a moment for Carlos to be alone and not within the company of Rafa or somebody else on the team was even harder. 

When the right moment eventually presented itself after what felt like half a day of spying on Carlos Roger almost ruined it simply due to the fact that he had a hard time scrounging up the courage to actually approach the other man. To his benefit Carlos didn't turn or simply leave when he saw Roger approaching. But the scowl on his face was unmissable and the tone of his voice was so cold and hostile it send a shiver down Roger's spine.   
   
“Carlos, hey.. I... I sort of need you to do something for me...”  
   
“And why would I do that? For you of all people…”

From the way Carlos reacted to him, Roger was absolutely sure Rafa hadn't told his coach about the talk he had with Roger and the fragile equilibrium they had reached. It didn't matter anyhow. This was something between him and Rafa and Carlos didn't need to know about every last detail of getting the relationship they had once shared back to some semblance of normal. This was about getting the other man to help him out in doing something nice for Rafa. Hopefully that would be enough to get Carlos to be compliant.   
   
“Carlos, please… It’s not for me exactly anyway, it’s for Rafa.”  
   
“What is it this time? More happy letters?”  
   
Roger decided to ignore the vicious sarcasm that was thrown his way, though it wasn't exactly easy. Being reminded of that godawful letter by anyone was something Roger always had a hard time dealing with. But he knew he couldn't expect much of anything else from Carlos who still wholeheartedly believed he had kept the thing a secret on purpose... After all it wasn’t like he didn’t deserve the disdain, at least to a certain extend. But this wasn't about the animosity between him and Carlos and therefore Roger had no problem ignoring that he was being insulted.  
   
“I spoke to the tournament director.”  
   
“Why? Do you want them to ask Rafa to leave? Does it bother you so much he’s still here even though he’s out of the competition? Does it disrupt your precious concentration when he watches you play?”  
   
“Will you just shut up and listen for one moment! Stop being an ass!”  
   
Roger hadn't meant to loose his temper like this but Carlos made it extremely hard to have an even halfway civil conversation. All he did do was throw insults and accusations at Roger in that irritatingly mocking tone and finally Roger lost it. There was something good coming out of his harsh reaction though because Carlos did indeed shut up and blinked at him a couple of times, obviously not having expected for Roger to get back at him like this. Now with Carlos effectively silenced, Roger explained what he wanted the other man to do.   
   
“I asked them for a chance to practice at center court prior to the start of the daily matches. It wasn’t exactly something they were thrilled about but they agreed for one hour tomorrow from 9:30 to 10:30 am.”  
   
“What has that got to do with us?”  
   
“I want Rafa to use it. Take the time, get a feel for a big stadium again, get reacquainted and maybe lose some of that reluctance that made it impossible for him to compete here.”  
   
Carlos stared at him like Roger had suddenly grown a second head and the Swiss had a hard time not to grin at the Spaniard's reaction. He was sure Carlos would probably have bitten off his own tongue before ever telling him it was indeed a nice gesture and that he appreciated the effort being made on Rafa’s behalf. At least he hadn’t been yelled at or shut down again. Roger took that as a good sign and he continued. There was one small condition he would have to insist on and he had the distinct feeling Carlos wouldn't like it.   
   
“There’s one very important detail though, one condition… Rafa can’t know it was me who set this up.”  
   
“Why not?”  
   
“Because that’s the way I want it.”  
   
“You’re afraid he’ll say no if he knows it was you who suggested it? You don’t want him to think this is some kind of charity on your behalf?”  
   
“Exactly.”  
   
“But it is.”

Roger let out an audible sigh. It was frustrating that no matter what he did or said, Carlos was always inclined to see the worst in him. He wished for a chance to simply grab and shake the other man until all the prejudices and wrong assumptions fell out and Carlos and him would find some neutral ground so start from again. But today wasn't that day, today he had to explain his actions because Carlos simply was unable to believe him when he insisted he was simply trying to be nice without any ulterior motives.   
   
“No it’s not. I know you don’t believe me but this is me doing something nice for him without expecting anything in return. Can you accept that?”  
   
“Alright fine. I won’t tell him unless he asks me.”  
   
“That’s not exactly what I meant…”

The relief Roger had felt when Carlos had finally agreed to help him out was short lived and obliterated by the other man's unwillingness to oblige by the one little condition Roger had. It wasn't like Carlos denied him the chance to be the anonymous benefactor he wanted to be but enforced his own terms instead. It was the best Roger would get from Carlos given the circumstances and it was still better than nothing. So Roger relented, nodding in agreement.   
   
“I will not lie to him, Roger. If he doesn’t ask, I won’t tell – no harm no foul. But I won’t lie.”  
   
“I guess that’s good enough.”

*the next morning*  
   
Roger had decided to pay a visit to center court during Rafa's practice session that he had set up for the younger man. He knew it was going against the idea of being the anonymous help with all that and that he shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be watching but he wanted to see how his idea panned out. Actually he wanted to make sure Carlos had indeed been true to his word and both he and Rafa actually showed up on center court at the appointed time… 

At least in that regard Roger wasn't disappointed. They were a couple of minutes late but then again punctuality had never been Rafa's strong suit. Roger had settled in one of the empty commentator's boxes where he was sure he wouldn't be detected but had an excellent view on the court just the same. He was definitely close enough to tell that even from a certain distance Rafa looked both very uneasy and self-conscious being on the court. His eyes kept wandering over the empty stands, the edges of the court and he seemed to have a hard time focusing on Carlos’ encouraging words.

It took some more talking and gentle coaxing from Carlos before Rafa eventually picked up a racket and found his way to the baseline. The first few balls played where like watching a train wreck. It was awful but one simply couldn’t look away. Roger had to wince as one particular ball simply passed by without Rafa even getting to it though it certainly hadn’t been difficult to put back into play. On a good day he probably would have managed that one with one hand tied behind his back… Roger could honestly say he had never before seen this many mishits from the Spaniard than he did right here and now.

Rafa didn't like it either, it was all to visible in his expression. There was a scowl on his face every time he mishit or send a ball wide but it seemed he found no way around those little mistakes that made his whole game look shaky and kind of ugly. But as had been the case in so many matches before, it took a little while for Rafa to get any traction. It wasn’t exactly something new. It was simply how things worked with him and given the additional emotional strain he was under, it was no surprise it took a little longer than usual…  
   
It got easier, even enjoyable to watch after about 25 minutes. The moment Rafa finally let go of his anxieties and insecurities and focused all of his concentration on the movement of his coach and the little yellow ball was practically palpable. Something shifted in Rafa's demeanor, in the way he held himself, his whole posture and facial expression suddenly different from one second to the next. From there on out Roger was treated to an intense, professional level training session.

He had been close by often enough to know that this one was different to the way things usually went when Rafa was on a practice court with his team. It wasn't that they usually lacked intensity but usually there were little breaks in between, a lot of talking and discussing, a bit of silly banter and happy laughs. None of that happened here today. The practice session had the intensity and seriousness of a real match. 

It didn't come as a surprise to Roger though. The whole idea had been to give Rafa a chance to get reacquainted with a stadium of the same size as back in Paris and to make him feel comfortable in this particular surroundings again. Carlos and Rafa cut the practice session short by about five minutes as it was overly clear that Rafa was exhausted. It wasn't surprising given that he had played no competitive tennis whatsoever since Paris.

It was hard to tell from a distance but Rafa was facing his way after picking up his things and there was no mistake about it. There was the tiniest of smiles on Rafa's face and he looked a lot more relaxed than he had almost an hour ago. Roger couldn't help it. He congratulated himself for a job well done.


	45. A truth told too late

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As some of you may be aware, there are still some unresolved issues...  
> This chapter deals with one of them and I'm sorry but it won't be pleasant :P  
> Re-reading the chapter I just realized Rafa comes across way too nice somehow, especially towards the end of the chapter, given how long he has left Roger hanging accepting his apology. But bear in mind that it's mostly Roger's POV and when it comes to Rafa and Paris, his thinking is still very much biased and tainted... I hope that makes sense. 
> 
> Hope you like it.
> 
> Also I decided to update every two days for the rest of the story.
> 
> <>°O°<>

*That same afternoon*  
   
Roger was on his way to one of the practice courts and he was in a good mood, still happy about the turnout of this mornings practice session he had witnessed. He was surprised to find his scheduled court still occupied upon his arrival by none other than Rafa who was busy stuffing the last of his things into his bag. It looked pretty much like he had been here a while and actually had yet another session of practice.  
   
There was a soft but nervous smile on his lips when he detected Roger’s presence and once again that acute feeling of having to accommodate the younger man and make him feel welcome caused a rush of words to fall from Roger’s mouth before Rafa ever had a chance to say hello or explain what he was doing here.  
   
“Rafa, hi... I didn't know you were here...”  
   
“I just finished practice with Dominic. He asked two days ago and I had a lot of other requests to act as practice partner. It's nice.”  
   
Roger had almost let it slip that he now understood why Rafa had only spend about 50 minutes on center court this morning. He had known he would be needed for another hour to an hour and a half in the afternoon and that meant he had to pace himself. After all somebody else depended on him to be a decent practice partner. Roger caught himself though before the words came out. After all it had been his idea to keep his involvement in that morning's practice session a secret. As it turned out there was no need for it though.  
   
“He already left though. Me, I'm not that quick . It's good. I meet you. I can say thank you.”  
   
“What for?”  
   
“Organizing the practice on center court for me.”  
   
Roger hid back a profanity at Rafa's revelation. Of course Carlos hadn't been able to abide by that one little condition Roger had demanded from him. The damn stubborn Spaniard was irritating even if he was nowhere around... Roger couldn't help the soft growl to his tone of voice and was surprised to hear Rafa chuckle at his response. It was a nice thing to hear and an unexpected one. He couldn't remember the last time he had seen some kind of positive reaction from Rafa when he had been in the vicinity...  
   
“Carlos told you…”  
   
“He hinted. Strongly.”  
   
“He wasn’t supposed to.”  
   
“I don't think he cared.”  
   
Roger was pretty sure there was a lot of truth to that. Carlos certainly couldn’t care less what Roger had wanted. He could only assume that meant Carlos still didn’t know the entire truth about the letter… He knew he was being curious but it wasn't exactly like he could have asked Carlos directly, at least not if he expected an answer. Rafa however didn't seem to mind that he was being this nosy about stuff that was quite frankly none of his business. Yet it felt good to realize the younger man would allow him a glimpse into his private life. It felt like another small step to a more normal way of dealing with one another.  
   
“Does he... know? That you came to talk to me? Did you tell him?”  
   
“No.”  
   
Roger frowned at the answer. He had expected Rafa to talk to somebody about his late night visit at Roger's hotel room. But as it turned out it wasn’t like the younger man hadn’t done that. It simply hadn’t been a member of his entourage he had talked to. It was understandable. After all there were a lot of negative feelings involved when it came to Roger and his involvement in the attack… Talking to Carlos about it probably would have resulted in a heated argument.  
   
“I told Charlotte. She was pleased.”  
   
“Yeah, I can imagine... I'm glad she could help.”  
   
“Why did you do this, Roger?”  
   
“Ask you to see Charlotte?”  
   
“No. The practice on center court. Why didn't you just tell me? Ask me yourself if I wanted this?”  
   
The true answer was that he hadn't known how. Approaching Rafa and having a normal conversation with him was still something that felt extremely difficult to Roger. They certainly had made progress since Charlotte had become involved in both of their recovery processes but they were nowhere near any kind of interaction that could be deemed normal. Roger opted for a different version of the truth, one that still showed how difficult it was for him to do and say the right thing around Rafa. It seemed it was something they both had to learn anew.  
   
“I… I didn’t want you to feel like I pitied you or something. This isn’t charity because I feel bad for you. I just… I felt you deserved something nice. Especially after everything…”  
   
“It was nice. A good chance to get a feel for the court again. I’m very happy about that.”  
   
“I’m glad to hear that.”  
   
Silence followed as the conversation came to a close but for the first time in months it didn’t feel awkward or loaded. Rafa seemed relaxed, happy even and took his time finishing to pack his belongings. Roger watched him and something about the way the younger man finally seemed more at ease around him, made him decide on a matter that they should have talked about months ago already.  
   
In retrospect Roger wasn't exactly sure what possessed him to do this right here and now but maybe now was the right time to do it. Rafa finally seemed more comfortable around him, had a smile and a cheeky reply for him just like old times. And that made it so much easier for Roger to come up with this very delicate topic he had kept to himself for the longest of times. He knew there was a chance he would ruin what little trust Rafa had regained in him. But he also knew he couldn't stay silent about this forever. It was like ripping of a band aid – it needed to be done.  
   
“There’s something else I need to tell you about…Something I should have told you a long time ago actually… It’s… it’s about the letter and I don’t think you will like it… Or me for that matter.”  
   
For the longest of moments it felt like Rafa had been frozen to the spot. He had stopped mid motion at the mention of the letter and when he finally managed to shake himself out of his stupor every last movement he made was slow and measured. He finished zipping up his bag before straightening up to look at Roger. The look in his eyes almost made Roger flinch and he hurried to continue before the last remnants of courage left him and he would leave this unsaid for yet another couple of months to come. He had started now, there was no way back anymore. No matter how much it would hurt either of them.  
   
“That letter never made it to the police…”  
   
“Why?”  
   
Rafa's tone of voice betrayed no emotion and his facial expression had taken on that stony quality again that was usually reserved for on court performances. His defenses were up and Roger couldn't blame him. He had expected righteous anger and disdain though but Rafa didn't allow even a single emotion to seep through. Where there had been a small smile less than a minute ago, Rafa kept his feelings entirely guarded from Roger now, not betraying the slightest sign of weakness. It was hard to talk to Rafa when he acted like this, especially with a question as delicate at this.  
   
“There were all kinds of considerations at the time… And when I talked to Carlos and he was so unbelievably furious with me, I don’t know… Something snapped. I didn’t dare tell anyone else, I didn’t want to make that decision. I mean this was never about me, not really. So I… I told myself I would wait until you were well enough to talk to you about this. After all this should be your decision to make…”  
   
“You tried to protect yourself.”  
   
“Ultimately yes.”  
   
Rafa had summed Roger's long monologue up perfectly but it still hurt to hear his own lengthy explanation reduced to a very simple and shameful fact. He couldn’t deny it though and it would have been both unfair and cowardly to have done so. All this had ever been about was to protect himself from what the public would think if they found out about the letter. At least that was the first and foremost motivation. Rafa’s own wishes and feelings had been an afterthought… If there was any kind of sympathy for his decision Rafa didn’t let it show. However he wasn't done asking difficult questions.  
   
“Why tell me now?”  
   
“Because you deserve to know, you deserve the choice to be yours. And because I feel better this way… So… what will it be?”  
   
“Give it to the police.”  
   
“Okay…”  
   
It was exactly the answer Roger had both expected and dreaded. Doing this was the right thing, the right decision and one that should have been made months ago. But he also knew he was in for problems of monumental proportions once the secret – the evidence – he had kept for so long would be made public. He could barely imagine what this would mean for him but he knew it would be very unpleasant to say the least. He wasn’t the only one aware of that fact and it was probably just his mind playing tricks on him but Roger could have sworn there was a hint of glee to Rafa’s words. It wasn’t like he didn’t deserve it – along with the distrust, disdain and overall disappointment…  
   
“This will be difficult for you, no? Especially after all this time?”  
   
“I would think so. But it’s the right thing to do.”  
   
“No. Three months ago it was the right thing to do.”  
   
Rafa’s statement was both very true and very painful to hear. Of course the younger man was right and there was nothing Roger could have said in his defense. He didn’t get a chance to. Rafa had picked up his bag, stepped past him and left without another word. Roger watched the Spaniard disappear from view and couldn't help but feel like he had just destroyed what little progress he had made in getting Rafa to trust and like him again. What little steps they had taken to return back to normal had just been obliterated and once again he was at fault for that...  
   
Practice had been out of the question afterwards. Roger couldn't concentrate and the fact that Rafa had made it very clear how immoral and simply wrong it had been to keep the letter a secret for almost three months had made it impossible for Roger to wait a second longer to go public with it. He had returned to his hotel room, had talked to Mirka, had talked to his media manager and together they had placed a conference call to Inspector Willkins from Scotland Yard, whose phone number Mirka still had from the time the man had called with a couple of follow up questions.  
   
It had not been a pleasant experience. He remembered Inspector Willkins as a calm and friendly man but there had been nothing remotely calm or friendly about his reaction to what Roger had to tell him. At first the inspector was in complete and utter disbelief, pretty much rendered speechless. And then the sharp, accusing questions had started. How long had Roger known? Who else had been in contact with the physical evidence? Had there been any further letters or other contact with the attacker?  
   
Finally he had been told to keep the evidence at the ready and that Scotland Yard would contact NYPD and get someone to pick up the letter. Roger had also been advised in a very stern and strict tone to keep himself available for further questioning. Inspector Willkins had told him he would inform the Parisian police and that he was absolutely sure they would have further questions for him.  
   
It had taken less than half a day for yet another police inspector to call, this time from Paris who had proceeded to yell at him in French. As expected the police in Paris hadn’t been exactly understanding either. Even more so than the inspector from Scotland Yard who was only supposed to relay the information to his colleagues in France, they had put a lot of pressure on Roger and had come up with a lot of uncomfortable questions as to why it had taken so long for him to reveal this crucial piece of evidence. The words ‘obstruction of justice’ had been thrown his way quite a few times.  
   
It would have been easier had there been any support for him. He had his family of course and Charlotte had been somewhat ambivalent to the whole topic. She had understood his reasoning, understood his fears but of course she didn’t agree with the decision he had made based on that. But from press and fans and especially from his fellow players there was nothing but disbelief and disdain being shown to him – very publicly and very vocally at times… Novak - in his function as council president no less – had gone as far as demanding he be disqualified from the tournament and banned from the tour altogether for an extended period of time to make up for the horrible display of character he had shown.  
   
Of course the press had gotten wind of the whole matter and the ensuing medial and fan response had been far worse than anything Roger could have ever imagined. It had been vicious to the point of threats being made against both him and his family. All of that attention, the hate and disdain crashing down on him had an impact on his performance at the tournament as well and the US Open had been over fairly quickly for him as soon as the information about the letter had gone public.  
   
It wasn’t exactly a bad thing because playing in front of a crowd that had nothing but to show him, had not been a pleasant experience either. It also meant he could go home and hide himself away for a little while. And it gave him a chance to put distance between himself and Rafa who was still there at the tournament, though they both had made it their top priority to avoid and ignore each other ever since…   
   
It was all the more reason that the last thing Roger had expected in all this, was a show of sympathy from the one person who had suffered from his decision the most. He hadn’t done until after Roger had lost his match and was already back home in Switzerland but with a safe distance between them and no chance to be asked about his motivation Rafa had taken it upon himself to hold that press conference the journalists had been so anxiously waiting for to hear his side of the story.  
   
He had told the press they had talked about this, that he knew the truth of the matter, that he believed Roger and that though he certainly would never forget what he had done and what consequences had arisen from it, he was willing and able to forgive. It had been a poor choice, but everybody made mistakes and poor choices and Roger was no saint. He had urged press and public to refrain from expressing their feelings and opinion in such a destructive manner and had concluded that there would be no further public discussion on the topic from his side. This was a matter between him and Roger and a piece of evidence to the police.  
   
Roger had debated whether or not he should have a look at what Rafa had to say to the press when he found out there would be a statement and had decided to simply go for it and hope fir the best. He had watched the press conference back at home with Mirka and he had dreaded whatever it was Rafa had to say on the matter. Of course the Spaniard managed to surprise him yet another time and he wasn’t the only one feeling that way. His wife seemed just as dumbfounded as he felt. She was the first one to regain both her composure and the ability to form words after the press conference was over but she still sounded completely astounded at what they had just witnessed.  
   
“He defended you… I can’t believe he did that.”  
   
“Neither can I.”  
   
“Why then? Why would he do that? I mean from his point of view one could argue you deserve what has been coming your way.”  
   
“Rafa doesn’t seem to think so.”  
   
“Don’t take this the wrong way, honey, but he’s just too damn understanding and forgiving for his own good!”  
   
And still somebody decided to plunge a knife into his back… The thought came unwanted and caused a cold hard knot to form in Roger’s stomach. Mirka was right. Rafa was a good man and way more understanding than he ever could have been had the situation been reversed. Then again had the tides been turned, none of this would have happened because unlike him Rafa probably wouldn’t have ignored his media manager and would have listened and immediately acted on the incentive… Roger had done neither of those things.


	46. Important decisions

*4 weeks later*   
   
Tennis simply wasn’t fun anymore. It was the only way Roger could put it. Ever since the revelation about the fan letter that had detailed the attack on Rafa in Paris he had played exactly one other tournament after the US Open and it had been a complete disaster. He had decided on a smaller tournament in Russia, hoping the media attention and the disdain from fellow players and fans wouldn't be so bad there.  
   
He had been wrong. The only way to properly describe it was that he had been shunned like he had suddenly developed a highly infectious and transmittable disease... Nobody had wanted to practice with him or even talk to him, people hadn't shown any interest in seeing his matches and at one point his opponent had refused to shake hands with him after loosing the match to him. It had been godawful and up to that point he hadn't even talked to any member of the press.  
   
They had been vicious and unrelenting and that was putting it mildly. It didn't seem to matter Rafa had taken his side and had urged the media to keep the matter private. They kept asking questions. Why had he done it? How did he feel about it? How had the police reacted? Was there any kind of legal consequence to be expected? It had gone on and on and no matter how often he had tried to tell them this wasn't a matter of the sport and for them to refrain from asking him about this, the questions never stopped.  
   
To him it had been no wonder he had lost in the third round of the tournament and he hadn't exactly been sorry to leave it all behind and go back home. He wasn’t sure when exactly the decision had started to take form but it was probably a couple of days after returning from Russia and actually enjoying the peace and quiet and normalcy of being home with his family. Unlike at the tournament he felt happy and safe here and that had been the start of the whole thought process.  
   
He had called Charlotte first, even before talking to his family but more to talk about how badly things had gone for him in Russia and how he felt about that, than to ask for her advice. Actually he had kept the decision that was blossoming within him to himself until the very end of the phone call to Charlotte when she had asked him if there was anything else he felt he wanted to tell her. Roger had the distinct feeling Charlotte already suspected something going on with him and that made it easier to let her in on it.  
   
“I... I'm not sure I should even ask you about this but...”  
   
“You want to retire?”  
   
“How could you possibly know that?”  
   
He hated it when she did that. Whenever Charlotte left him with the distinct feeling that she was somehow able to read his mind, Roger was surprised first and irritated after. Especially because every time he reacted with shock and astonishment, Charlotte gave that soft, knowing chuckle Roger always felt uncomfortable about. He hated feeling like there was somebody around who obviously knew more than he did… Charlotte however at least tried to be gracious about it.  
   
“I'm damn good at reading people, that's why. Otherwise I would have chosen the wrong profession.”  
   
“Well... What do you think?”  
   
“I think it would be the right thing to do. And the right moment for it. Tell me if I'm wrong, but from everything you have told me, ever since that shitstorm descended on you after the public found out about the letter, it haven't exactly been fun times for you.”  
   
“That's just it. Don't you think it's the wrong motivation?”  
   
It had been Roger’s main concern ever since the idea had arisen. He wanted this because right now he was going through a very rough patch. Granted his tennis game hadn’t been up to par ever since Paris either but Charlotte had helped him through a lot. Right now things looked grim and there was no enjoyment in the sport any more. But Roger knew there was a very good chance it was temporary and the last thing he wanted was to second guess himself for the rest of his life on having made a premature decision. Charlotte however didn’t seem to share any of his worries.  
   
“No. You should be feeling passionate about what you do. Happy and grateful that you get the chance to do it. But that's not how you feel about tennis, or is it?”  
   
“No. Not any more.”  
   
“There you have your answer.”  
   
Charlotte sounded very sure of herself and the way she said it it sounded ever so simple. But it wasn’t and of course the therapist could be sure of herself. She wasn’t involved or invested – she had an outsider’s objective perspective on this. Roger didn’t have that luxury. He had been doing this for 20 years and it was hard to simply let it all go. It felt like loosing a part of himself and that was one hell of a daunting prospect…  
   
“So I just leave it all behind? Just like that?”  
   
“Just like that. Though you might want to tell your family first.”  
   
The light heartedness of Charlotte’s statement hadn’t really registered with Roger because telling Mirka was just another daunting step on a long way to the final result of not playing any professional tennis any more. He loved her, he trusted her and he knew her for so long but he still had no idea how she would react to this new chapter in their life finally becoming a reality. He had needed a night to sleep on it all after asking for Charlotte’s advice and an additional half day to gather the courage for it, before he had finally approached the matter around his wife.  
   
“There’s something I need to talk to you about but I don’t know how…”  
   
“Start at the beginning. That’s always good.”  
   
“I want to retire.”  
   
For a long moment Mirka just looked at him and he could practically see her thoughts tumbling over one another as she tried to decide on an appropriate reaction. In the end it turned out all his fretting and obsessing over telling her had been in vain because her final reaction was a soft smile and a nod of approval – the very last reaction he had ever expected. Even more so as she didn’t exactly seem surprised at the prospect of this drastic change in their future.  
   
“That is… not unexpected.”  
   
“You knew?!”  
   
“I had certain suspicions. Apart from the fact that you haven’t been playing all that well ever since New York or ever since Paris for that matter, you didn’t seem happy out there. And if this turns into work and obligation without so much as a hint of fun for you, I think it’s about time you stopped. Me and the kids sure would appreciate to have you home more often.”  
   
“I didn’t expect this…”  
   
Her smile widened at his obvious astonishment. Roger couldn't even tell why he had expected her to react badly to this revelation. Maybe because it was one he had made on his own without asking her up to this point. She was used to being involved in his decision making but then again that had changed since Paris. For the first time since agreeing to meet Charlotte and actually seeing the benefit in that, he had managed to determine what to do and please his wife in the process. The whole restless night and the hard time he had coming up with the courage to talk to her about this in the first place had all been for nothing. 

If anything Mirka sounded almost a little disappointed he had so little faith in her ability to accept change. Granted it was a big decision, a severe transit and it would mean changes for the both of them. But the way she reacted she seemed to wholeheartedly believe it was all for the better. And she didn't mind not being consulted but only being told. After all it was something she wanted, something she had been waiting for and had sort of anticipated every since the events in New York that had left Roger on the sidelines and pretty much unwanted and averted on the tour... In the end all she managed in response were a smile and a shrug.   
   
“Why? Do you really think I enjoy leaving the kids alone and travel halfway across the world nine months of the year? I would be thrilled to have you here as a full time husband and father!”  
   
“You never said anything before…”  
   
“It was never up for discussion before.”  
   
That much was true and to Mirka's benefit there was no bitterness to her words. Certain aspects of their every day life as a couple had always been accepted on her part. She had always been understanding of the fact that as long as he enjoyed and the results warranted it, tennis had come first for Roger. It didn't mean he valued or loved Mirka any less but she had never – not even once – forced his hand in making a decision either for her or for the sport. It had always somehow worked hand in hand. Which was probably why he was this surprised about how easily she took it all. After all she had been traveling with him most of the time and had managed most of the business that went with the territory of being a successful professional athlete. It would mean a radical change for her just the same.   
   
“You would be okay with this?”  
   
“I would be delighted.”  
   
Her joy and appreciation of his decision couldn’t have been any clearer. The smile on her face had widened, practically making her glow with it. She leaned in closer to kiss him and there was so much emotion and passion to the physical interaction, it took his breath away. Mirka was actually truly happy... The kids would be elated. Charlotte – as his measure for a level headed, objective third party – had encouraged him... It seemed the decision was set. Now all that was left to be done, was to let the rest of the world know.


	47. Turning things around

*A couple of days later*  
   
Shanghai  
   
Being in Shanghai knowing fully well that he would never come here again – at least not in the capacity as a professional tennis player – still felt strange and a little surreal to Roger. The feeling was only increased by the fact that Mirka had come with him though she usually avoided the Asian tournaments as it meant hours of travel and leaving the kids behind, which she didn't like to do. But as it would be the last time and the last couple of weeks hadn't exactly been easy for Roger with all the adversities thrown his way, she had decided to come along.

The welcome at the tournament when he had met the first group of fellow players hadn't exactly been warm but the contempt they felt towards him seemed to have died down somewhat. The best description for it was 'civil' and Roger could only assume that the fact that his wife was around had been a great help. Maybe they all still hated and despised him for what he had done but they respected his wife and that had made things sort of easier for Roger.

He knew Rafa was here as well and he dreaded that encounter as much as he hoped for it. He wanted a chance to let the younger man know ahead of the press that he would retire and that in the future Rafa wouldn't have to deal with any more awkward encounters between them. So far they hadn't seen each other and even if they had Roger knew he couldn't just walk up to Rafa and announce to him that he was leaving professional tennis. He needed to wait for the right moment to present itself. 

Right now it was a little difficult to tell if they would even get a chance for an encounter. Rafa was supposed to play his second round match and after what had happened at the US Open, Roger wasn't even sure Rafa had actually appeared out on court. He hadn't been able to get any information whatsoever about that match that was supposed to be underway at the moment. As she had so many times before, Mirka was his savior in a tense situation, knowing exactly what it was he needed and helping him out in the process. 

She had been talking with one of the tournament officials – foremost to make arrangements for Roger to officially announce the retirement. But of course she had kept an ear to the ground about Rafa's progress and overall standing in the tournament so far, knowing her husband would want to know and would feel more at ease being here once he knew the Spaniard was doing well. She happily carried that piece of information to him, though she had to admit it had surprised her given how badly things had worked out for Rafa at the US Open. 

“I know what you are looking for but you won’t find it in the score boards yet. He only just finished - played his second round match today and won. Comfortably.”  
   
“No... problems this time?”  
   
“From what I gathered he seemed a little preoccupied but he was handling it well.”

It were good news, though they were surprising ones. Given that it had been less than a month and a half ago that Rafa hadn't even been able to step out on a court full of spectators it seemed close ot a miracle that he had not only been out there competing but had also won comfortable. It wasn't the only piece of information Mirka brought to him. His wife had other news for him and he wasn't exactly sure how he felt about them. It seemed a little like disaster had avoided him once again even though he certainly didn't feel like he deserved that turn of events.   
   
“There's something else and it has nothing to do with tennis.”  
   
“What is it?”  
   
“That letter we gave to the police unfortunately didn't produce any new leads. It was a dead end. Apparently Rafa told the press in his pre tournament presser. It seems the Parisian police informed him about it a couple of days ago. He also said you're off the hook and that there will be no further investigation in regards of obstruction of justice. He told them he hoped that now that the police stopped scrutinizing you over this, so would the media...”  
   
“I don't understand why he's so invested in helping me out with this.”

Mirka shrugged her shoulders in response, not knowing how else to respond. She felt the same way. She had tried her hardest to understand what could have possibly possessed Rafa to take Roger's side and actually try to help him out with all this. From her point of view it was Rafa's right and prerogative to be both angry and gleeful at how people had reacted to the revelation about that fan letter. But neither of those things had happened. It was almost like the younger man felt a strong need to protect Roger from all the negativity that had been flung his way. The answer to the question why still eluded both Mirka and Roger though.   
   
“I don't either. You could go ask him, I guess...”  
   
“Yeah, that will go over well...”  
   
“He doesn't blame you or mean you any harm, Roger. God only knows why. Why would talking to him be a problem?”  
   
“Because I deserve the disdain and he simply refuses!”  
   
“So you want him to be mad at you?”  
   
“It's crazy isn't it? I would feel better if he did...”  
   
“Well than there's your punishment.”  
   
She had meant it as a joke though there was no humor to it and he certainly didn't believe her assessment to have any truth to it. Somehow Mirka doubted Rafa would be that malicious and calculating to actually be nice in order to mess with Roger's feelings, denying him the disdain he felt he deserved. The fact remained that neither one of them could fully explain why Rafa had helped out, especially after everything he had been through and the long time he had believed Roger to be both involved and to some degree responsible for all the pain and hardship Rafa had been forced to go through.

They met by chance which was usually the way it happened at these tournaments. A short meeting in passing, a couple of words of hello and a little bit of small talk and then each of them went their separate ways. This time wasn't much of any different except for the fact that Rafa was the one to actively come over and seek a conversation with Roger. He was the one to approach the older man when they crossed path at the player's lounge instead of looking the other way or trying to avoid him instead. They didn't share so much as a smile or a handshake. The whole exchange was strangely subdued...   
   
“Roger.”  
   
“Rafa, hey. I heard about your match. Congrats.”  
   
“Thank you.”  
   
It felt like wading through molasses the way the few forced words dragged on between them and neither of them actually managed to look the other fully in the eyes. They were acting way more guarded around one another than ever before but after all this was the first time since the media response to the letter being made public, Roger actually spoke to Rafa. But at least the younger man was talking to him. That was already more than Roger had expected.  
   
He felt he should thank the younger man for taking a stand and speaking up on his behalf but somehow Roger couldn't imagine the Spaniard would appreciate the gesture... Unfortunately Roger had no idea what else to say. He drew a complete blank, his mind conspicuously empty. There was no need to force another small talk topic though As he just now realized - their meeting hadn't been an accident or chance but Rafa had sought him out and apparently there was purpose to it.  
   
“Do you have a phone number for Charlotte?”  
   
“Yes of course. But I thought you talk to her regularly...”  
   
“Standing appointment via Skype once a week. I never asked for a number.”  
   
Roger frowned at the statement. The arrangement seemed strange to him. He could call Charlotte whenever he needed to and usually the young woman was available on the spot. He had never once bothered to appoint certain times with her that she deemed appropriate for him to call. And he had never felt the need to actually have visual contact along with the audio. For him talking to Charlotte was enough.. But then again he and Rafa were completely different people, even when it came to how to best deal with their therapist. Roger was kind of surprised by the question either way. After all he had bestowed a business card on Rafa. He needed a moment to realize there was no phone number on Charlotte's business card either. As he had said all those weeks ago in New York, Charlotte was special... Rafa's request pulled Roger from his thoughts.   
   
“Would you give it to me? There's something important I have to tell her and it can't wait until the next appointment.”  
   
“Okay… I… I’ll make sure to get it to you.”  
   
Rafa had nodded at that but it had been a simple reaction of acknowledgment, not of thanks. He had left without a word of goodbye and Roger had been standing in the player's lounge watching him go, feeling like an idiot or like he had just woken from one of his nightmares. They had happened again after the media reaction upon the news of the letter and this version of Rafa – the cold, distant one that kept a detached tone of voice came pretty close to the version in Roger's nightmares... 

Not wanting to repeat the encounter any time soon, Roger had made sure a message containing Charlotte's phone number had been left at the reception desk of the hotel for Rafa to pick up. That had been about six hours ago and it was now a little past ten in the evening. He and Mirka had opted for room service and his wife had fallen asleep on the couch in the main room right in the middle of the movie they had on. It was as good a chance as any...

Roger had managed to maneuver himself off the couch without waking her, had gotten his cell phone and had stepped into the bedroom to call Charlotte and not have anyone listen in on the call.   
He simply hadn't been able to contain his curiosity and even though he was pretty sure he was in for a lecture full of profanity and other colorful euphemisms from Charlotte for trying to get her to tell him something that had been confided to her, he simply could not just not do it. She picked up on the second ring and from the sounds in the background he could tell she had been busy, probably doing dishes or cooking. Either way it sounded like plates and cutlery had been used. As so many times before the female therapist didn't bother with pleasantries but tried to get straight to the point of his reason for calling. 

“Charlotte, how are you?”

“What is this? A social call? Seems odd... Are you okay? Are they treating you better in Shanghai than they did in St. Petersburg?”

“A little I guess. Having Mirka with me helps... They like her.”

“Great. Sounds like you have things under control.”  
   
“Yeah... I guess... What did Rafa talk to you about?”

The words were out of his mouth before he could stop himself and tumbled out so quickly he was pretty sure Charlotte probably only got half of his question. But he was giving her way too little credit. For a long moment she didn't react at all and then Charlotte was doing that irritating soft chuckling on the other end of the line that usually meant she was in on something Roger had yet to understand or even comprehend. Her tone of voice wasn't unfriendly but there was a hint of both reproach and amusement to it.   
   
“And here I was thinking you needed my counseling skills. Turns out you’re just nosy.”  
   
“Stop stalling.”  
   
“I’m not stalling, I’m offended.”

This time there was actually harshness to her tone of voice and Roger quickly realized he was being out of line. He had no right to even ask these intruding questions in the first place and he certainly had no right to push a therapist into revealing details about something she had talked about with one of her other patients. As much as he wanted to let this go and just accept the fact that there were certain aspects to both Rafa's decision making as well as his motivation that would always be a mistery to Roger, he simply couldn't help himself. To his own surprise his openness about how much he was affected by the uncertainty was being rewarded.   
   
“I’m sorry, okay. I’m sorry this is bothering me so much and I’m sorry for intruding like this. I know doctor-patient-confidentiality doesn’t apply to what you do but I still understand if you don’t want to go into detail. I just… It’s driving me crazy not knowing.”  
   
“Apparently he managed something I never could.”  
   
“What’s that?”  
   
“Find a way to deal with the panic that settles in every time we put ourselves in a situation similar to the one we got hurt in.”

Roger was rendered completely speechless for a moment. He remembered Charlotte talking about this pseudo-sience-mind-over-matter stuff that he had not believed in and had actually laughed about when she had suggested it as a coping mechanism. As it seemed she had done the same thing with Rafa and he had not only picked up on it but had managed to make something positive out of it for himself. Something that hadn't only helped him apparently, because the way Charlotte talked about it, Rafa seemed to have relayed his experience back to her in order to help her with her own fears about returning to the situation of her own trauma...   
   
“This is about his match?”  
   
“Yes. He called to tell me how he managed and actually gave me advice for my own future attempts at returning to the marathon. It wasn’t counseling we did, at least not on my part.”  
   
“Rafa helped you out?”  
   
“Yes.”  
   
She sounded grateful and that left him feeling completely overwhelmed. Charlotte – the strong willed, stubborn, headstrong woman who always had an answer to everything and had always been so matter of factly when she had been talking about tboth her and his trauma and how to handle it best, sounded grateful... Roger had no idea how to react to that, how to make sense of the fact that Charlotte had given Rafa an advice he had followed through on so perfectly that he had been able to give it back to her to help her with it as well... Roger kept his silence for a long time until Charlotte seemed to think he had forgotten about her. Quite frankly he had and he couldn't talk to her about any of this any longer. It was simply too much to deal with all at once...  
   
“Roger, are you still there?”  
   
“Yes… Sorry. I… I have to go. Thanks for telling me.”  
   
“No problem.”  
   
He ended the call without saying goodbye and could feel hysteria bubbling up. Rafa had called Charlotte to tell her how he had managed to overcome his own fears to manage to get back on a tennis court in competitive circumstances with spectators, line judges and ball kids all around without delving into a deep rooted panic that left him unable to do much of anything. Five weeks ago at the US Open that hadn't been possible and now he had apparently counseled the counselor... To Roger that seemed so damn absurd and surreal he actually questioned if he had really talked to Charlotte or if he had fallen asleep on the couch as well and his mind was playing tricks on him. 

Roger decided that he needed a walk. He decided to take the stairs up to the roof with the rooftop pool where he assumed nobody would be around at this hour of the late evening. As it turned out, Roger had been wrong about the rooftop being unoccupied. Maybe it was karma or fate or a simple coincidence but once again his and Rafa's paths crossed by chance today. He was there in shorts and with no shoes on, sitting at the edge of the illuminated pool, feet and lower legs dangling in the water. 

Roger knew he should have left, shouldn't have intruded on what seemed a quiet moment of contemplation. But he couldn't just walk away. Not with the opportunity presenting itself like this. He had to talk to Rafa about what he had just been informed about by Charlotte. Still having this bizarre feeling of detachment to the whole situation because it felt so much like part of a dream, Roger didn't bother with announcing his presence or saying hello. The words simply tumbled out of him and he startled the younger man with it. Rafa turned abruptly to where the voice that had suddenly sounded behind him had come from, splashing the water in the process. Detecting Roger he was both surprised and a little irritated at the intrusion. After all he had come here to be alone, not to be pestered with any more questions or for someone to force a conversation on him. 

“You helped her.”  
   
“Roger! What are you doing here?”

“You actually helped her...”

“Sorry?”  
   
“You went through a traumatic experience, you almost died, you were unable to deal with being back in that same situation only five weeks ago… I know Charlotte helped you and gave you advice… But how the hell did you turn that not only into something useful and positive but something that your damn therapist – who should for all intents and purposes be better equipped to deal with any mental problem better than you – could gain from?!”  
   
It seemed Rafa either wasn’t sure what to say or couldn’t make sense of Roger’s excessive babbling. Being completely honest with himself Roger could barely make any sense of it himself. It had been a mistake to engage Rafa in a conversation, he realized that now. Whatever the younger man's motivation had been up to this point, realizing Roger had talked Charlotte into telling him stuff he had no business knowing would only make matters worse and would deteriorate what little was left of their former relationship even further. The one thing he stil could do to prevent that from happening was to get out of the situation... He needed to leave.   
   
“I’m sorry. I have no right to ask you about any of this… I shouldn’t even talk to you… I… I should go…”  
   
“Roger, wait… I… Are you… okay?”  
   
Rafa stopped him before Roger was even midway through the motion of turning back to the entrance to the rooftop pool. It was such a hilariously bizarre question Roger had to fight down the urge to actually break out in a hysteric fit of laughter…. And here he was asking him if he was okay… He turned back around and found Rafa standing next to the pool, water dripping down his thighs and forming little dark pools of liquid on the ground. Obviously he had gotten up without Roger noticing. The Swiss took a couple of steps closer and shaking his head at Rafa in disbelief at the question.   
   
“Why would you care? After everything that has happened, every mistake I made… Why would it matter?”  
   
“I was worried.”  
   
“Is that why you helped me? Why you took my side after the press descended on me when they found out about the letter?”  
   
“Yes.”

Finally Roger was getting somewhere with this and for whatever reason Rafa seemed inclined to actually give him an answer to that one question that had been nagging at Roger ever since Rafa had attended to the press in New York and had told them to leave Roger be. Weeks of uncertainty and of playing a guessing game and now he had the chance to finally come to terms with it all and get a real answer at the source. He couldn't help the slight tremble in his voice, his emotions winning the better of him and pushing his composure aside.   
   
“But why?! I just don’t get it. I hurt you! Again! Why do this?”  
   
“I tried to understand. I tried to think about what I would have done…”  
   
“And?”  
   
“I don’t know. I will never know because it’s not what happened. But I know I would have been scared and when you’re scared you make stupid decisions. You made a stupid decision. But I understand why. I don’t blame you.”  
   
“You should.”  
   
“No. You do that enough for the both of us.”

There was a soft sad smile on Rafa's face that accompanied the words. There was no accusation to his tone of voice though or any kind of judgment. It was a simple statement of the facts and Roger could hardly deny that Rafa was right. Where the younger man had shown nothing but forgiveness and a level of calm that Roger still couldn't comprehend he had kept on letting his own emotions running all over him and had felt guilty and ashamed and simply just awful mostly because Rafa simply hadn't done any of that for him, had not yelled at him, had not accused him of anything and had simply kept his distance.   
   
“That’s probably true... So you don’t hate me?”  
   
“No.”  
   
“But you don’t trust me either.”  
   
“Not today, no.”  
   
It was a strange answer, one Roger hadn't expected. But above all it was an answer that gave a certain amount of hope to Roger. It seemed whatever he did there was still a part of Rafa willing to forgive him no matter how messy things had gotten between them. The statement was loud and clear and Rafa didn't even have to say it out loud. What he meant to say was - maybe one day but not today. Roger could work with that...   
   
“Will you give me a chance to change that?”  
   
“Are there any more secrets I need to know?”  
   
“No. I swear.”  
   
“Good.”  
   
It wasn’t exactly an answer to his question but Roger knew what Rafa had meant to say. He knew it was more than he could have hoped for, especially after intruding into the other man's privacy twice today already – first with Charlotte, now up here at the pool. But it seemed something good had come of it. They had talked – more openly and heartfelt than they ever had since the events in Paris. One thing was all too clear to Roger - if there was nothing standing between them any more, a chance to get back to normal could very well be established.


	48. Dropping the bombshell

Shanghai - 4th day of the tournament  
   
Something had sort of shifted after that late night encounter up at the rooftop pool. In some moments it still felt like an illusive dream to Roger, one he had talked to nobody about, not Charlotte, not his wife, not anybody. He could only assume Rafa had done the same and somehow felt the same way as he did. The last couple of days their chance encounters on the tournament grounds had been more frequent and less forced. Something in Rafa's demeanor had changed and Roger was more easily able to accept the lack of disdain and detachment from the younger man. He was willing to try to turn this around and get back to a more balance interaction, especially as there was so little time left for him on the tour to achieve any of it. 

As it turned out he didn't even need to show any initiative. Once again they had a chance meeting on the tournament grounds on the day off between the second round and their quarterfinals which they had both advanced to. Roger was on his way to the player's lounge and Rafa – bag on one shoulder and racket in hand – was obviously on his way to practice. The younger man stopped him when their paths crossed and for the second time in less than a day, Rafa had a smile for him – a genuine and content one. 

“Roger.”  
   
“Rafa, hey. How are you? Congrats on reaching the quarterfinals.”  
   
“Thank you and the same to you. Are you busy?”  
   
“No. Not really. Why?”  
   
“I was going to practice. Would you like to come?”  
   
“Watch?”  
   
“Play.”  
   
It was an olive branch that had been extended to him in the most unusual ways and Roger immediately nodded. He was pretty sure Rafa already had a practice partner lined up and this had been a spontaneous idea but as it gave him a chance to spend some time with Rafa in a situation they would both most definitely be comfortable with. The one thing Roger really wanted to achieve with agreeing to Rafa's proposal was creating an opportunity to share a completely normal moment with one another – no emotions running high, no baggage, no tension but just a bit of tennis...   
   
It was only a short walk to the practice courts and as expected Rafa's practice partner was waiting for him. It was Carlos, as Roger had expected - and of course Carlos was pissed at the sight of Rafa's company. Usually Carlos wasn’t traveling with Rafa for the Asian tournaments but ever since Paris a couple of things had changed in the way Rafa’s team acted around him. Just like the rest of them Carlos felt protective of Rafa and that was the main reason he was here with him - wanting to make sure no harm came to him.  
   
Rafa went to talk to his coach and there was a short discussion in low voices but judging from Carlos animated gestures and the stern expression on Rafa’s face it was a rather heated argument. There was no need for the two men to keep their voices down though, Roger wouldn’t have understood anyway. The whole exchange ended with Carlos throwing his hands up in defeat, turning away and stomping away and off the practice court, shooting daggers at Roger in the process. Roger's gaze had been following the older man but he was distracted when Rafa walked back up to him, apology written all over his face.  
   
“I’m sorry… He’s been worse since I talked to the press about you…”  
   
“He thinks you’re making a mistake… I don’t blame him.”  
   
“He doesn’t know. Not everything.”  
   
Roger refrained from pointing out to Rafa that Carlos would never know the entire truth if Rafa didn’t tell him about it. This was none of his business and he certainly had no right to demand any kind of influence on the decision the younger man made regarding who to tell and who to keep things from. Rafa was still looking at him and seemed at a loss of what to say or do next. It wasn't until Rafa pointed it out that Rafa's reluctance made sense to him.

“You don't have a racket... or a towel...”

“Well I wasn't really prepared for practice.”

Roger couldn't help how idiotic he felt at the realization. Here he was, having agreed to practice with Rafa without actually being prepared for any of it. Rafa was already tackling the problem though and had left Roger standing there feeling stupid while he rummaged through his bag that he had left at the bench at the side of the court. He returned from the bench and his bag with one of his spare rackets and a towel, holding both of them out for Roger to grab. 

For a moment the Swiss simply stared at the offered items. Of course Rafa would have anything that was needed for practice taken with him in overabundance but actually being offered another player's racket to play with hadn't happened to Roger all too often. Rafa didn't seem to think anything of it and maybe that was the motto of this outing together... Don't think, just enjoy. Roger took the racket and towel, gave Rafa an appreciative nod and walked back to the baseline.

It was just a bit of light hitting, getting the ball in play and getting a feel for the unfamiliar racket from Rafa. Obviously he was great entertainment because every time he mishit a ball due to the foreign feel of one of Rafa's rackets in his hands, the younger man was grinning at him from across the net. They kept on going for about 15 to twenty minutes before Roger felt comfortable enough with the equipment he wasn't accustomed to and suggested they play a set or two.

It was different from anything they had done together before. Of course it was nothing like a competitive encounter but it didn't have the feel of an exhibition match – of which they had played quite a few – either. Here there was no audience, no one to watch their every move. It was by no means a relaxing experience though. Even on a practice court and with a set of tennis played for the purpose of training Rafa had an intensity about himself like his life dependent on every point played...

The thought occurring so suddenly and unwanted had Roger miss the next return. He knew Paris had changed things for the both of them and maybe it was the reason why Rafa seemed a little more determined, a little more intense when it came to the sport. After all he knew how close he had come to never being able to play the sport ever again... or do anything again for that matter. For the first time in months Roger actually managed to push the distressing thought aside and served out their first set on his next service game. They ended up at 6:4 in Roger's favor and he felt he deserved a moment to sit down and catch his breath. He motioned for Rafa to meet him at the net. 

“I could use a break. Sit for a while and have some water... I'm not 20 anymore, you know... And neither are you.”

They settled down on the bench at the side of the court, side by side, Rafa providing Roger with a bottle of water from his bag. In the months after Roland Garros and the weeks since Rafa's return to the tour, they had never shared a moment like this. Even by the standards before the attack in Paris what they were doing here was unusual. People sharing such a tense rivalry as they did, usually wouldn't be practicing together. Or sitting together sharing both equipment and water bottles... Roger gave Rafa a sideway glance and couldn't help but smile at the realization that they ounger man seemed just as content and relaxed as he felt.   
   
“Can you believe we have never done this before.”  
   
“We played a lot of matches, Roger. We know how the other one plays.”  
   
“Yeah but this is different. It’s fun.”

 Roger couldn’t help but grin seeing how Rafa’s face fell at his words. There had been no malice to his words, but it was undeniable that playing against Rafa under competitive circumstances wasn't fun for anyone. It was taxing and exhausting and no matter how great a match it would turn out to be – or how bitter a defeat – being in the moment and getting the job done was hard work. Nobody on the tour enjoyed these kind of matches and Rafa had to be aware of that.   
   
“Playing a match against me is not fun?”  
   
“Playing a match against you is exhausting both physically and mentally... And it’s fun.”  
   
Rafa was smiling at the afterthought Roger had added, obviously very happy with himself. Roger watched the younger man sip at his water bottle, obviously lost in thought but judging from the expression on his face, those were nice and happy thoughts. This was the most normal situation they had been in in months and a stab of regret coursed through Roger at the realization that now – with his mind made up and the decision about to be officially announced – there wouldn't be too many chances for a repeat.

He wasn't sure why he felt the need to tell Rafa in person before anyone else found out about it. He just knew he needed to do it. It was probably the feeling of guilt and responsibility still lingering in the depths of his heart. They shared a unique relationship and a very traumatic experience and Roger felt Rafa deserved to know and be told in person. He wouldn't get a better chance than this. It was a quiet moment and to Roger if felt like it was now or never.  
   
“I will retire...”  
   
“From the tournament?”  
   
“No. From professional tennis. After the world tour finals. It'll be announced officially once the last European tournaments start...”  
   
Rafa was staring at him for a long moment, not saying anything. He was being perfectly still, the only indications he hadn't frozen on the spot at Roger's revelation being the blinking of his eyes and the movement of his chest as he breathed. Roger felt uncomfortable under the scrutiny but it didn't exactly come unexpected. He wasn't sure what he had hoped for Rafa to say or do but it was probably normal that the idea of Roger retiring wasn't sitting right with the younger man. Still it was strange to have Rafa react like this. He was the very first person Roger had talked to who did not show a positive reaction. Unlike Charlotte or Mirka, Rafa showed little support this far. What he did have however were questions. 

“Why?”  
   
“It's time I guess. I'm 38 years old after all... I've won every Grand Slam title at least once, I won an Olympic Gold medal, I'm second in the ranking right at this moment. Why not retire on a high note.”  
   
“This is because of Paris.”

Roger had expected the question and he immediately shook his head in answer. Paris had a lot to do with his reasons to retire, he couldn't deny that. But he had a lot of time to think about this, to consider all his options and explore his own motivation and he ad quickly realized that the decision making process had run a lot deeper than this. It was about the trauma they had both experienced, no doubt about it. But it was also about him, about how he felt about the sport and about his family.   
   
“No. Not entirely at least. Paris is a big part of it, I won't lie. But I have four adorable kids and an amazing wife. They deserve a full time husband and father. And I need to find a way to deal with what happened in Paris. This is my way.”  
   
“You run away?”  
   
“I leave it behind. There's a difference.”

Rafa had gotten up from the bench obviously dealing with too much nervous energy to stay seated any time longer. Roger watched him take a few steps before he turned around and walked back to the bench, all strong-willed determination. Roger had to hide back a small smile as he looked up at the younger man who had stopped and was standing in front of him now, hands on his hips. He was pretty sure he was in for a talk about fighting spirit and how to prevail in adverse conditions. It was nice to know Rafa wasn't willing to simply give up on Roger as an active part on the tour without a fight.   
   
“Not to me. Going away – from the tour, the opponents, the competition. That is running. It's wrong. You should stay. You should compete. You should fight. How else will you be stronger for what happened?”  
   
“Ever the warrior...”  
   
“Sorry?”  
   
“Forget about it.”

The comment had been out before Roger had even fully thought about it and he was glad Rafa hadn't picked up on the sarcasm. Sometimes the language barrier was a good thing. Roger really didn't want to explain why he had teased and why Rafa's passionate plea for staying on the tour was heart-warming but certainly no reason to change his mind. Roger pushed himself up from the bench, wanting to be on eye level with Rafa when he told the younger man that there was no chance to change his mind, no matter what he said. The decision was made.   
   
“This is what I want to do, Rafa. I have my way to deal with everything that happened to us that day in Paris. You do it your way.”  
   
“I will. I am.”  
   
„Yes, you most certainly are.“


	49. A little like deja vu

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're back in Paris agan today with the story.   
> Unfortunately today's chapter is not exactly following on the upward trajectory.  
> The medical facts in this are researched but I took some liberties so please bear with me. 
> 
> Hope you like it
> 
> <>°O°<>

*2 weeks later*

Paris  
   
It was Wednesday, the third day of the tournament second to last in the calendar of this year and Rafa had a good portion of his morning hurling profanities at his own image in the mirror. He had woken to a dull throbbing in his lower back that had turned into cramps and a rather uncomfortable back pain over the course of the next couple of hours and he couldn't help the feeling of anger at his own damn body for being unable to simply do as it was supposed to instead of causing him pain and trouble yet again.

He had known he wouldn't be able to practice like this and if he wanted any chance to make it through his quarter final match on the next day he needed to take it easy for today. Unfortunately he had asked Feliciano to be his practice partner for today and as the other man was still part of the competition Rafa felt it was unfair to take the chance for a useful practice session away from the fellow Spanish player. 

He had met Dominic at breakfast and after some awkward small talk had simply asked the younger man to help him out and practice with Feli on his behalf. He had promised to come along, watch, implore his wisdom if need be and that had obviously done the trick. They were on their way to the practice courts now – 6 or 7 minutes late – and Feli was already waiting for them. The grin on his face when Rafa finally appeared quickly vanished upon the realization that he wasn't alone. Rafa hurried to explain Dominic's presence to Feli, apologizing in the process. 

“I brought you a practice partner.”  
   
“I was supposed to be your practice partner.”  
   
“Well I can’t. And I didn’t want to let a perfectly good hour of scheduled practice go to waste. So you’re welcome.”  
   
“What do you mean you can’t?”

As so many of the players – especially the fellow Spanish ones Rafa also used to play Davis Cup with – Feli was immediately worried about him as soon as Rafa mentioned even so much as a slight itch or admitted to feeling a little under the weather. It had to be expected he assumed. These people cared about him and they had all been extra worried about him ever since the attack in Paris. Being in a bad mood about his body failing him already though, Rafa really didn't appreciate the excess hovering and caring today.   
   
“I’ve been having back spasms since this morning. It’s nothing serious but it limits range and dexterity, which means I’m no use to you. Hence bringing you a different partner to practice with.”  
   
“Are you sure it’s just that? Are you feeling okay? You look awful...”  
   
“Thank you, Feli.”  
   
“I didn't mean it like that. You just… you really don't look well.”

Rafa switched from Spanish to English to include the Austrian in the conversation and let both him and Feliciano know that there was no need for either of them to inquire after Rafa's health or act like they were his mother. He knew he wasn't feeling well but he also knew how to handle himself and above all he knew how to interpret the signs his body was sending him. So far it felt like a simple muscle strain and even if that kept him from practicing today it certainly was nothing to stress out about just yet.   
   
“Form a club, why don’t you? Dominic here has been saying the same thing since I met up with him and got him to agree to help me out. It's just back pain, guys. It'll pass.”  
   
“Shouldn't you be a little more careful with something like this? You had a... back injury...”  
   
“Actually I had several. But thank you for reminding me. You’re very helpful.”

Dominic who already had seemed very awkward addressing the matter and reminding Rafa of the previous injuries without ever actually using the words 'attack' or 'knife wound' looked almost scared at the harsh tone of voice Rafa had used. He couldn't scrounge up enough patience to actually feel sorry for his tone of voice though. It wasn't like he didn't know he had been injured before and that there was a need to be careful. He was all grown up and able to take care of himself. He didn't need any of the other players to do it for him. Feliciano – who usually wasn't that prone to using profanity – had switched back to Spanish and showed no restraint when he let Rafa know how he felt about the younger man's sharp tone and sarcasm.  
   
“And you are bitchy and a stubborn ass.”  
   
“I’ll remind you to be all sunshine and roses the next time you are hurting.”  
   
“Well, if you’re hurting you shouldn’t be here.”  
   
“It’s not like I’m doing anything physically exhausting. I will just sit here, watch, play the umpire and the ball boy if need be. So stop worrying.”  
   
“Fine.”  
   
Feli sounded anything but fine after the heated exchange but at least he seemed to have decided to let Rafa be for the time being and stomped off to the base line at the far end of the court. Dominic took a moment longer to do the same, obviously not yet done with the worrying. A quick look however was all that was needing and the young Austrian was trotting off to the baseline as well, leaving Rafa alone by the benches next to the net to sit and watch them play. 

It was actually fun to watch the two practice and it made it easier to ignore the dull pain that was still throbbing in Rafa's lower back. Feli and Dominic went at it for about half an hour, before deciding to make use of Rafa's proposal to play the umpire / ball boy for them and play a single set. First service game went to Dominic without Feli being able to gain a single point. He was just as good on his own serve until the third one when one of his balls went into the net and rolled over to where Rafa was sitting on the bench, watching.

He instinctively leaned down to pick it up and couldn't help but wince when the pain suddenly shifted and sharpened feeling like a red hot poker had been stabbed into his side. Rafa stopped mid motion, pressed his arm to his side and needed a moment to catch his breath and straighten back up. Of course his discomfort hadn't gone unnoticed by either of the two men. Where Dominic only looked worried, Feli was already on a jog over to him, calling him out on his reaction.   
   
“What now? Pain has been wandering to your side?”  
   
“It’s nothing.”  
   
“You’re clutching at it...”  
   
“It's not...”  
   
“Rafa, come on. Just go see a damn doctor. Please? It's not just back pain!”  
   
He was about ready to engage in a heated and rather ugly discussion with Feliciano about where he should stick his nose in and what was his business to have an opinion about and what was not. Unlike the older Spaniard Dominic was all gentleness and caution. But unlike Feli who had very easily managed to get on Rafa's bad side, the Austrian actually managed to defuse the tense situation and still managed to leave no room for argument.  
   
“Come along. We'll take you.”  
   
Rafa had followed through on Dominic's request – albeit begrudgingly and only to shut both him and Feliciano up. The y had delivered him to the ATP mandated doctor for the tournament and had said their goodbyes, imploring them to look them up later and let them know how he was doing. Rafa still felt this whole thing was ridiculous and there was no need for him to see a doctor. But he also had to admit that that sharp pain to his side had not quite subsided since it had first appeared after picking up that ball...

Rafa was still sure to be out of the treatment room at the tournament grounds within a couple of minutes. The doctor certainly was all business about his problem, asking him where it hurt, how the intensity was, finally asking him to lie on his stomach first to check on his back and then on the side that didn't hurt, checking the throbbing side too. It wasn't exactly pleasant but it didn't hurt either. Which wasn't exactly a good sign. 

Muscle tension or tears were usually something that hurt when a doctor or physio probed around it... The doctor asked him to sit up again after a little while and looking at his face now Rafa's heart sank. The doctor looked anything but pleased. Actually he looked concerned and a little out of his depths, which – and Rafa knew that from personal experience – was the worst look to appear on a medical professional’s face. … His verbal response was just as devastating.  
   
“I would like for you to go to a hospital for further testing.”  
   
“Is this really necessary?”  
   
“As I don't know what is wrong with you, I couldn't exactly say. But I strongly advise it.”  
   
“What do you mean you don’t know? You’re the doctor.”  
   
“A doctor without a chance for further tests. From what I can see and feel, it’s not a muscular problem. I can only assume it’s something internal that’s causing the pain and discomfort. You should have further tests for that. Ultrasound and maybe an MRI… You really should go to a hospital.”  
   
“Right away?”  
   
“That would be my advise. Actually I would like to call an ambulance… This could turn out to be serious… Do you have a preference?”  
   
“Georges Pompidou.”  
   
The name of the hospital he had spend so much time in after the attack was out of his mouth before he ever had a chance to fully think it through. Actually he didn't want to go back there but as it was the only hospital in Paris of which he knew the name there wasn't much of any other choice. However he insisted on not having an ambulance called. He wasn't feeling sick or exhausted or was in too much pain to walk. Maybe there were grounds for concern but he definitely wasn't seriously sick or injured... Or at least that was what Rafa hoped for.

The tournament doctor still called ahead and when Rafa arrived at the reception desk of George Pompidou after having a driver take him, they were already waiting for him. As usual having a bunch of hospital personnel fussing over him while they were doing the tests the ATP doctor had deemed necessary wasn't exactly pleasant but it was something he had gotten heartbreakingly used to over the last couple of months. What he had not expected was the doctor who came to see him in the exam room they had him in waiting for somebody to show up and explain the results to him. To his surprise it was his former ICU doctor – Mallarde – who entered the room, looking at him with an almost reproachful expression on his face before giving him a small smile.   
   
“Rafael? I thought I was very clear when we parted in July and I said I never want to see you here again.”  
   
“I'm sorry, Dr. Mallarde. This wasn't my preferred afternoon activity either. What are you doing here anyway? This isn't ICU.”

“I'm filling in for a colleague. And I have your results here.”

“It's nothing serious, is it? It doesn't feel serious...”

Rafa was trying to convince the doctor just as much as he was trying to convince himself. But seeing how the smile on Dr. Mallarde's face grew just a little tighter he knew immediately that there were no good news in store for him. Whatever this was, Feli had obviously been right. It wasn't just back pain. It was something that had shown up on the damn MRI which meant it had to be something internal. Rafa tried to focus on the doctor and away from his gloomy thoughts, trying to carefully listen as the physician explained what the problem was.

“Well it's not exactly serious but it's not good either. The pain you are experiencing is due to the kidney remaining taking on the full function for two organs. It has grown in size, which is perfectly normal. But it means the rest of the digestive organs have to make way inside the abdominal cavity to better accommodate the enlarged kidney and that is what's causing the pain. It’s temporary though. Once the process is completed the pain will subside as well… But there's something else the MRI showed, something I feel a little concerned about. There is also some scar tissue from the intestinal injury I would like to keep an eye on.”  
   
“Why?”  
   
“Well as with any scar tissue it’s a little stiffer and weaker than the surrounding tissue. There might be no problem arising from it at all but there is a chance that the scar tissue might tear, causing internal injuries and blood loss. I think it’s better to be safe than sorry about this, especially given how physical your every day life is.”  
   
“What does that mean?”

Rafa didn't really want an answer to that question. He already had a pretty good idea what yet another medical problem would mean for him. More doctors visits, more tests, more hospital stays and he was sick and tired of all of them. Luckily though Dr. Mallarde's answer didn't turn out to be even half as bad as Rafa had expected. However it only concerned the future, as the French doctor had yet to state how to best handle the pain Rafa was experiencing at the moment due to the enlarged kidney. The outlook to that part however wasn't as rosy...  
   
“Urging you to be more careful and avoid strenuous activity is most definitely in vain. So in light of that I would advise to have it checked at least once every three months.”  
   
“Do I... Should I withdraw from the quarterfinals. They are tomorrow.”  
   
“Can you properly play with the amount of pain you're going through?”  
   
“Probably not, no...”  
   
“Well I would refrain from prescribing any pain killers, especially if you use them to put even more stress on your body. It's necessary to monitor the localization and amount of pain I'm afraid in order to make sure it's from the growth of the kidney and the slight shift in the abdominal cavity and not something more serious. If you take the pain killers you wouldn't be able to tell if the pain migrates or gets sharper. I know it's uncomfortable but until the process is over you really should try to deal with the pain without the assistance of medication.”  
   
“Short version – I withdraw.”

Rafa couldn't help the bitterness sounding in his voice. None of this was Dr. Mallarde's fault, he was only the bearer of bad news but he was also the only one around to take the brunt of Rafa's frustration. The medical professional however didn't seem to mind and was actually quite sympathetic to his plight, enough so that Rafa managed a small sad smile at the doctors obvious discomfort for having to tell him the news.   
   
“I'm afraid that's what it comes down to.”  
   
“Thank you, Dr. Mallarde.”  
   
“I'm sorry I didn't have better news.”  
   
Rafa gingerly moved off the gurney in the treatment room and looked for his cell phone ready to call his team and tell them as well. This had been Paris for him for this year... Yet another awful health related problem that had him end up in a hospital... One could get the distinct feeling that the city didn't like to have him here...He had felt good about the tournament, about his tennis, about his chances at getting far and now all of that was down the drain. Rafa suppressed a sigh, ready to leave but the French doctor stopped him, a small smile on his lips. Rafa had a certain idea what Dr. Mallarde was about to tell him and couldn't help but grin despite all his negative feelings.  
   
“Oh and Rafael...”  
   
“I know, I know, you don't want to see me here again.”  
   
“Try to adhere by that from now on.”  
   
“I'll do my best, doctor. I'll do my very best.”


	50. Moping

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will be on holiday by the 25th and I decided to have this story finished before that.  
> Which means you will be getting two chapters a day until next week Wednesday.  
> You have been warned :)
> 
> <>°O°<>

*4 days later*

Porto Cristo

It had been raining pretty much constantly since Rafa had returned home and the the cold gray weather was fitting perfectly with his mood. The heavy clouds, the awful weather that simply took the beauty of his home away and the fact that he could barely see more than a few meters because of the pouring rain and could only imagine the sea being there – just as gray and unappealing as the rest of the sight – was like a mirror image of how he felt inside. He was frustrated, disillusioned and above all he was angry with himself, with his body that had once again decided to betray him. 

The pain he had felt in Paris had worsened since then and was accompanied by a constant feeling of nausea and dizziness that made it hard to concentrate on anything else. He had seen a doctor in Palma upon his return who had been anything but pleased about the development and had strongly advised him to take it easy for a couple of days. No strenuous activity whatsoever. He was supposed to return to the doctor's office if nothing changed over the course of a week. So far it hadn't happened. Rafa still felt as awful and tired as he had four days ago which left only another three days for this to get better.

He hated the fact that the attack and injury in Paris was causing him grief yet again. The fact that he was in pain and unable to do anything except to lie in and feel sorry for himself all day long, was a direct result of the attack on him and he was sick and tired of dealing with the fallout. He was supposed to be okay, the time his recovery had taken long over and a semblance of normal should have returned to his life right now. But with this new complication nothing felt normal to him.

He had been ushered into bed by a concerned mother and a stubborn sister as soon as he had stepped foot into the house and as much as he hated being treated like a sick four year old he couldn't deny that it had been a good idea. Doing much of anything else but to lie down and find some way to alleviate the pain was consuming pretty much all his energy at the moment. He had several pillows supporting his back and another one that put mild pressure on the lower back. Warmth and pressure were helping with the pain and lying down kept the nausea and dizziness at bay. Neither of those measures helped with his mood though.

It was close to noon and Rafa had woken to the sounds of somebody downstairs. He assumed it was his sister in the kitchen making a lunch he wouldn't eat anyway. Even the smell of food threatened to send his nausea into overdrive and sitting up to eat was not a good idea either. He had spent a lot of the time those last four days watching TV and simply sleeping – if he found a position comfortable enough that made t able to sleep through the pain. Right now however he was occupying himself with a new message on his phone.

Lots of people had asked after his well-being since he had withdrawn from his quarter final match in Paris. Feli and Dominic had been the first ones, which was no surprise. After all they had been the ones to urge him to see a doctor about his back pain in the first place. But they hadn't been he last ones. It was safe to say people wee worried about him, even more so than ever before knowing what he had gone through four and a half months ago. This newest message however was a somewhat unexpected one. It was from Roger. 

'How are you today? Any better?'

The Swiss probably only knew about the official statement that had been released after Rafa's withdrawal. The press release hadn't been detailed, only saying that he was dealing with a complication from his surgery to have his injured kidney removed earlier this year, that it was noting serious and he would continue treatment for it upon his return back home. A timeline for his recuperation and his return to the tour hadn't been set. 

Rafa was still surprised to hear from him at all. Given the fact that Roger was probably running from interview to interview at the moment now that his own news about retiring had been made public, it wouldn't have been a surprise had he not heard from the other man at all. Their relationship was still rather guarded and fragile and Roger had a lot of things to deal with at the moment. Still it was nice to hear from him, even if the topic depressed Rafa. 

'Still hurts. Still sucks to be sidelined like this.' 

'I only know what the press release said. It's some kind of problem with the kidney?'

'Yes. Side effect from the surgery.'

'I'm sorry...''

Even reading those two little words, Rafa couldn't help but sigh and was about ready to put the phone away. He didn't need to be face to face with Roger to know that he meant to say a lot more than the two words ever could express. He didn't just feel for Rafa because he was sick and hurting, he felt responsible because Rafa was in pain as a result of the attack and the ensuing surgery back in Paris. As so many times before he could have tried to ease Roger's conscience but he had no energy for a lengthy discussion about fault and guilt. He decided to change the subject instead. 

'Did you change your mind?'  
   
'About what?'  
   
'Retiring.'  
   
'No. Of course not. It's already announced. Didn't you read?'  
   
Rafa couldn't help but feel sad at the news. Roger had been very determined when they had talked about this in Shanghai and it was wishful thinking to believe he wouldn't go through with his plans. Still it was a strange outlook not to have Roger on the tour anymore. As the other man had said about him during his absence – it would not be the same without him. Rafa had no idea what had been going on in the world of sports over the last couple of days though. Dealing with his own problems was all he had any energy for. 

'Don't feel up to much reading these days.'  
   
'What are you doing then?'  
   
'TV. Sleep. Trying to find a position where nothing hurts. I'm on bed rest. Doctor's orders.'  
   
'That sucks. And they really can't do anything about the pain?'  
   
'No. Too risky.'

Rafa didn't want to talk about how he felt and he was glad that this time Roger decided not to express how sorry he felt for him yet again. He appreciated that the older man seemed to have realized it wasn't a reaction that helped either of them. Roger was more concerned with the near future instead and came up with a question Rafa unfortunately had no answer to as of yet.   
   
'Will you be in London?'  
   
'Don't know yet. I'll try.'  
   
'Fingers crossed. I'd hate to play the last tournament of my career without you there. Would feel wrong.'  
   
“Suck-up.'

Rafa had to grin at his own message and it took a while for Roger to come up with a reply. He could almost imagine the older man back home in Switzerland – or wherever he was right now, Rafa didn't know as he had not kept himself informed about the progression of the tournament in Paris – staring at his phone at the teasing reply Rafa had send him. When the next message came from Roger, he was still being complementary and Rafa appreciated that.   
   
'Just saying it how it is. Get better soon.'  
   
'On it.'  
   
Rafa put the phone back on the nightstand actually feeling a little better about himself now that he had talked to Roger. He truly hoped this whole adjustment process going on inside of him would be over sooner rather than later. Roger wasn't wrong after all. The World Tour Finals in London would be the last tournament ever they would both be competing in. After that Roger would be gone... It was not something Rafa wanted to miss. His thoughts were interrupted when his sister came into his bedroom just as he had expected her to. 

“I brought chamomile tea and a hot water bottle... How do you feel?”  
   
“I wish people would stop asking me that.”  
   
“We will stop asking if you stop getting sick.”  
   
She meant it in a cheeky, teasing way but Rafa didn't feel up for that kind of banter. She put down the tea on the nightstand and handed the bottle to her brother before settling down on the edge of the bed. He hated the scrutiny she was putting him under, hated that she had managed to make him rethink everything that had been happening to him since Paris with only those few words of teasing and he hated how damn sorry he felt for himself. His reaction was a mumbled string of words more meant for him than for her but of course Maribel picked up on it anyway and she didn't seem to like what he had to say one bit. 

“I’m not sick, I’m… wrong.”  
   
“You’re what? Don’t say that again…”  
   
“Why not?! It’s true is it not? My internal organs are shifting around in there to make room for the one kidney I still have because it has grown in size to get the workload done that’s forced on it. That’s a lot of things but it’s definitely not normal!”  
   
“Don’t yell at me, Rafa.”  
   
For the longest of moments there was defiance and fury shining in his eyes but he seemed to think better of it than to engage in a heated argument that had no point anyway. His sister wasn't wrong after all. Yelling at her wouldn't help him and it certainly wouldn't make him feel any better. Right now it seemed there was little to nothing that could make him feel any better except for his stupid body to do it's job and work properly. He sighed deeply, regretting the action immediately as the strain on the diaphragm send a stab of pain through his abdomen.   
   
“I’m sorry.”  
   
“Look, I know you’re frustrated…”  
   
“This IS frustrating!”

“I know that. But it’s temporary. You’ll be fine in a little while.”  
   
“I’ve heard that one before.”  
   
“Usually it encourages you.”

He knew he was being overly sensitive and way too negative about the outlook of this new setback but even he had a hard time staying positive through all the pain and adversity that had been thrown his way ever since Paris. He had believed to be okay and then that panic attack at the US Open had happened. Then Shanghai had been his ultimate test where he had finally manage to step out onto a tennis court in competitive conditions again and his hopes and mood had been perfect. 

But then Paris had come around again and it seemed that city simply didn't grant him so much as even a little bit of luck and happiness any more, like it had to make up for all the years he had been successful... He had been in pain again, he had ended up in the hospital again and he was sidelined recuperating at home again. One of these days this vicious circle of getting his hopes up only to have them crushed again had to stop and today he was simply sad and depressed about it. He shrugged his shoulders at Maribel, unable to keep the disappointment from his voice.   
   
“Not today.”


	51. An unfair advantage ?

*10 days later* 

London – World Tour Finals  
   
Rafa still had a hard time believing he was actually in London at the finals and he had an even harder time believing it was Friday already and he had managed a spot in the semifinals of the last tournament of the year and the very last tournament of Roger's career... It seemed a little bit like a miracle, like his disappointment about how badly things had gone for him since Paris two weeks ago had been turned into something good in order to reward him for his stubborn determination to push through and be here ready to compete.

It had been the next morning after his messages to Roger and his heart to heart with his sister that he had woken up suddenly free of any pain or nausea or dizziness. It seemed the adverse reactions his body had been torturing him with had simply disappeared over night and all of a sudden he had been back to normal again. He had felt a little weak after spending four days almost entirely in bed but he had insisted on coming here.

Things had worked out great for him since then. None of the matches had exactly been easy but that was what the finals were all about. Competing at the highest level of quality and intensity and coming out on top of the opponent. So far Rafa had been able to do so brilliantly and now he and Roger would be facing off in the first semifinal, competing for spot in the final of this years last tournament. It would be the first match they played against one another since Paris and it would also be the last.

Roger – who had been having just as much of a good time in his matches – had no idea how the Spaniard felt but he had a strong sense of deja vu about their match that he had a hard time dealing with. It was stupid because this was nothing like Paris – it was a different surface in a different city at a different tournament and a different stage of the draw. But still Roger had a hard time keeping his emotions in check and he knew it would only get worse once he was out there on the court actually playing against Rafa. Every last thing they would be doing – from Rafa's usual routines to the way he moved on court or rearranged his water bottle during changeovers would be a remainder of Paris...

He had spoken long and extensively to Charlotte about it who had been surprisingly understanding and had not used her usual confrontational manner to help him deal. She had talked to him about her own experience just a little, had told him that it was perfectly normal to be nervous about something that reminded him of the trauma he had been through and that the trick was not to listen to his heart but to his head. Being and staying level headed was the only way through this but as much of a good advice as it was, Roger had no idea how to actually use that once the reality presented itself. 

Roger felt good up to the point they warmed up together and he won his first service game. After that things changed and in the end all the preparation and the positive feeling he had managed to take into this match happy to play another match against Rafa before he retired, was for naught because two things happened that weren't unusual but that were completely out of his control. They broke every last bit of resolve he had prior to the match not to get emotional throughout. The first one of those things happened during Rafa's first service game which was the second one of their match. 

Rafa did something he usually didn’t do when serving. It was the usual ritualistic routine of wiping his face, tugging his hair away, bouncing the ball… but just before he threw the ball up he took a quick look behind him. That one was new to the routine and it tugged at Roger’s heart. He could understand perfectly well why Rafa did it. The Spaniard made sure there was no threat lurking behind him, before he fully concentrated on what he was about to do and therefor had to shift his focus away from his surroundings. … Roger barely even saw the ball coming his way – still completely overwhelmed by what he just witnessed and he missed the return completely. Across the net, he could see Rafa frown at him.  
   
It took adjusting and a lot of willpower to fight the panic lurking just below the surface. He knew he was better, he knew he and Rafa were back to a fragile normality in their unique relationship but he also knew that he would never be able to completely forget about Paris. It would always be part of him, part of his life and right now it threatened to overwhelm him. Right now it gave his opponent an advantage. Rafa served comfortably because Roger still had a hard time focusing on the return, all the while struggling a little on his own serve.  
   
Roger needed a little time but he felt he was doing a good job of keeping his emotions in check and his focus on the match instead of on that new and very understandable quirk Rafa had developed. The disability to concentrate right at the start on Rafa’s first service game was what broke his neck in that first set though. In the end Rafa ended up victorious at a final result of 6:4. What the Spaniard did next was that second thing Roger had no say in or control over and it was something Rafa always did in between sets for that matter. But this time it was what send Roger of the edge and pretty much right into that panic he had wanted so desperately to avoid.   
   
Rafa changed his shirt. There was nothing remotely stranger or surprising about it and Roger probably wouldn’t have noticed hadn’t he been still on his way back to the bench while Rafa was already there, getting a fresh shirt out of his bag and pulling the old one over his head. It was the first time Roger actually got a look and the sight took his breath away.  
   
It had been five months since Paris and the scars had faded from a prominent red to a milky white that stood out in stark contrast to the otherwise tanned skin. There were four of them. One on the back, an even longer one to the side of the torso and a larger and a small one on the abdomen. He couldn’t help it, he just stared. The scars disappeared between the fabric of the fresh shirt but not from Roger’s memory. He was pretty sure that picture would probably never leave him again for the rest of his days. … He needed Charlotte.  
   
The match was a disaster for him from here on out. Roger was completely unable to concentrate, the image of those gruesomely long, slightly jagged and still fading scars burned into his mind and the memory of how they came to be there, the memory of what had happened in Paris and how he had tried desperately to keep Rafa's blood from seeping out of the knife wound and the younger man awake so vivid Roger could almost smell the coppery odor of blood and feel the stickiness of it on his hands. The second set was over in less than 25 minutes and ended 6:1 for Rafa, which meant Roger had just been thrown out of the tournament... This was his very last match of his career and now it was over... 

Meeting him at the net, Roger forced himself to pull himself together and put a smile on his face. He didn’t want Rafa to notice something was wrong but of course the younger man was worried none the less, it was evident from the expression on his face. Their handshake extended int o a hug that lasted a moment longer than it probably would have hadn't Roger played so badly. He could hear Rafa whispering to him, concern just as audible in his voice as it had been in the look in his eyes. Roger deflected immediately. The last thin he wanted was for Rafa to feel guilty about this win.  
   
“Are you okay?”  
   
“I’m fine. Bad day. It happens.”  
   
His words sounded anything but convincing even to his own ears and judging from the frown on Rafa’s face he didn’t believe him either. But this wasn’t the right time or place to have this conversation. Still Roger ended the physical contact first, stepping away to gather his stuff and put some distance between them. He knew he couldn’t get away from any probing questions if Rafa decided to ask any more of them. Not right away and not without being rude. They would be returning to the locker room together to get ready for their post match interviews and press conference and that meant for the time being there was no getting away from the younger man.  
   
Roger was in luck though. Either Rafa had lost interest or he had simply decided that if Roger didn’t want to tell him what was bothering him so much, he would let him be. They walked back together in silence and even though there were questions unanswered it wasn’t uncomfortable. Whatever calm and composure Roger had managed to gather however was tossed right out the window the very moment Rafa changed out of his shirt again back in the locker room, getting ready for a quick shower. Once again Roger found himself staring at the thin white lines marring the skin, pretty sure he was doing it so obviously, Rafa had to have noticed.  
   
Roger couldn't help it – he simply needed to ask even if that meant crossing the boundaries of what was appropriate and what was too private to ask a fellow player and long time rival about. He knew he was setting himself up for further questions about his performance and his strange overall behavior out on court this way too. But seeing them for the first time just half an hour ago and getting a good look now again he needed to know. After all it was up to Rafa to answer the question. He didn't have to if he didn't want to.  
   
“Do they hurt?”  
   
“The scars? No. Sometimes they throb, sometimes they itch and sometimes I get little pains that feel almost  like a cramp. But it doesn’t bother me. Most of the skin is numb anyway. Nerve damage…”  
   
Rafa had followed Roger’s gaze at the question and simply shrugged in response. His answer was so matter of factly that it sounded almost normal. Like it was perfectly okay for him to have a bunch of scars crisscrossing his lower left side, giving him aches and having caused the whole area to go numb because of the damage done to the nerves in the tissue by the surgery performed.    
   
The younger man’s hand hovered over the scar tissue for just a moment and it was only now that he seemed to realize how intrigued and morbidly fascinated Roger was by the sight. The scrutiny was unnerving and Roger had yet to look away. It wasn’t simply curiosity though, there was something else in the older man’s look – something deeper and darker. Realization suddenly dawned on Rafa and the urge to cover the scars back up grew.  
   
“This is what threw you off? When I changed after the 1st set?”  
   
“I never saw…”  
   
“They’re just scars, Roger… Why are you upset about that?”  
   
It weren’t the scars that had thrown him off but the reason they were there in the first place. Additionally the knowledge of some of what the doctors had done to save Rafa’s life had only made matters worse. Roger had been over this multiple times with a multitude of people and all of them had always assured him that though he certainly had made mistakes, he wasn’t at fault for what had happened to Rafa. Still seeing the outcome of the attack on the younger man so clearly and vividly, inadvertently brought those feelings back to the surface.  
   
“Because I know how they came to be there…”  
   
“The whole world knows how.”  
   
“But they aren’t at fault.”  
   
“And neither are you. We talked about this.”  
   
There was a hint of irritation to Rafa’s words and it didn’t exactly come as a surprise. Whenever they had talked about the events in Paris and the aftermath of it all, Rafa had made it clear time and time again that he didn’t blame Roger for anything. He hadn’t understood the judgment calls Roger had made but had forgiven him for those all the same… Roger forced a small smile on his lips but he was pretty sure it looked more like a pained grimace.  
   
“I know. Force of habit I guess… It doesn’t matter. What’s done is done now. You deserve that spot in the final.”  
   
“I know. That’s not the point. The point is I won because I distracted you. I won because of gamesmanship…”  
   
Roger couldn’t help the softest of gasps at the statement because it felt so enormously wrong to say something like this. To him there wasn’t even a hint of truth to the way Rafa seemed to interpret his part in Roger’s loss out there today. There had been no malicious intent, no ulterior motive behind what Rafa had done out there whatsoever and that was what discerned gamesmanship from simple bad luck and coincidence.  
   
It was a lot like taking a medical timeout if something hurt and needed treatment right away in order to keep playing. Of course it disrupted the opponents flow but there was nothing to be done about that. Rafa hadn’t done any of this on purpose. It wasn’t like he could hide the scars away in order not to disrupt Roger’s calm and confidence and one certainly couldn’t expect him not to change out of a sweaty shirt for that reason either.  
   
Roger could understand the sentiment though. But just as much as he wasn’t at fault for the attack and the injuries Rafa had sustained in the process that were now a constant reminder due to the scars he was bearing, Rafa wasn’t at fault for Roger’s bad performance after the first set. This had been his own fault, his own inability to keep calm and keep his emotions in check. He shook his head vigorously at the statement.  
   
“You won because I couldn’t keep it together.”


	52. Fare thee well

*Sunday late evening*   
   
London  
   
Roger felt both out of place and uncomfortable and that was a combination that didn’t happen to him very often. He had planned on simply slipping quietly away after his loss in the semifinals and not give anyone a chance to wish him good riddance and make him feel even more awkward about the whole retirement topic than he already did. But his wife had insisted on staying and as it turned out there was purpose and reason to it.  
   
She had been talking with tournament officials, ATP officials and even with a – presumably very reluctant – player’s council to get a chance for a proper farewell party here at the finals.  
Surprisingly enough the turnout had been rather huge. Somehow his wife had managed to convince a lot of the players ad officials alike, that had thrown their scorn and disdain Roger’s way loudly and viciously just a couple of weeks ago, to see the greater picture here and not ruin their chance to say farewell to one of the most successful and celebrated players on the tour for the past two decades.  
   
It had probably helped that there was a party planned for the players at the official end of this year’s season anyway. It was nothing new, but  this time it wasn’t just about the winner of the finals but a farewell to Roger as well. He had not been happy about the surprise but the discussion had died down pretty much instantly as soon as Mirka had told him that both she and Charlotte felt it was a good idea and exactly what Roger needed. Like a right of passage and a memory to build for actually finding closure.  
   
He had assumed those had been Charlotte’s words that Mirka had relayed to him and in the end he had given in, not wanting to fight both his wife AND his therapist on a decision that had already been made without him. He had dressed up as was expected of him, had accompanied and complimented his wife as was expected of him and was now mingling among a group of people that had attributed him with amorality and other even more vicious things not to long ago, as was excepted of him.  
   
It had been a lot of polite chitchat so far, small talk without any substance to it and it was getting tiresome really fast. This wasn’t the right forum to actually talk about anything of meaning, to clear the air and get a chance to be open and honest around one another. Staying polite, smiling, trying to act as if this whole affair was enjoyable - it was mostly work. Having just dispersed of the latest bit of mind numbing conversation Roger turned to his wife, whispering to her, leaving no doubt about how much he disliked that she had made this decision on his behalf without consulting him first. Mirka however really didn’t seem to mind. She was actually smiling at him.  
   
“I hate this party.”  
   
“Stop complaining. You love this party and the fact that it’s all for you. You simply hate the idea of retiring.”  
   
“It’s not all for me. This is for the winner of the world tour finals… and the runner up for that matter and pretty much everyone who played this year and was successful at it. And you somehow managed to hijack it.”  
   
“To give you a chance at a proper farewell. You know most of those people for a very, very long time.”  
   
“I hate the idea of people pretending.”  
   
“It’s a player’s party. Of course there’s pretending.”  
   
She wasn’t wrong about that. Even at the best of times – and Roger hadn’t had the best of times as of late – there were always some players around that couldn’t stand one another and it was simply necessary to play pretend in order to get along. If you didn’t like somebody you either avoided them at these kind of parties or you kept any conversation short, polite and meaningless. But even knowing and appreciating that didn’t help Roger to feel much of any better about himself.  
   
“They don’t even want to be here. Most of them have nothing but contempt for me…”  
   
“That’s not true. Most of them admire you. Yes, you have had a difficult time of late and there really is no need to blame them for how they feel about you and the… unfortunate decisions you made. But this is about what you have achieved, what you’ve done for the sport. And there’s no denying the enormity of that. You deserve a farewell party.”  
   
Roger couldn’t help abut sigh at the statement. It wasn’t like he didn’t feel he deserved some kind of proper goodbye, he simply didn’t enjoy it. Scanning the room for at least one face that showed neither disinterest or barely hidden disdain for him, he detected Rafa at the far end of the room, talking to Novak about something that he was too far away to hear. Roger had no idea why he was so surprised to see the Spaniard here. But ever since their rather awkward conversation after the semi-finals Roger yet again felt a little apprehensive around the younger man. Telling his wife about it, Roger was rewarded with a shrug and a smile in return.  
   
“Rafa’s here… I didn’t expect him to come…”  
   
“That’s ridiculous. Of course he would be here. This is a player’s party and he’s the runner up of this tournament after all.”  
   
Roger gave a soft nod without looking at Mirka, watching the interaction between the two men instead up until the moment the conversation was obviously finished. Novak turned to face the room and - in his capacity as their player’s council president - asked for a moment of everyone’s attention. He took a moment to find the right way to start before he announced that they were not only here to celebrate another successful season but to say farewell to one of their own, praising Roger for his accomplishments and stressing the fact that he would be sorely missed on the tour.  
   
Roger couldn’t help but smile and not because of Novak’s words but because he was absolutely sure this was yet again his wife’s doing, who had not only managed to hijack this party but had somehow found a way to get Novak to do this even though he clearly didn’t feel comfortable with it. Actually he was absolutely sure standing their to give praise was hard on the younger man especially after Novak had been so vocal about some form of official punishment in the aftermath of the public finding out about the letter… But he managed his little speech on Roger’s behalf quite well, saying what he had to say if not truly heartfelt at least with a show of compassion and keeping a straight face throughout.  
   
The whole party was a little more mellow and a lot less exhausting after that. Novak’s friendly words seemed to have broken an invisible dam and people were acting generally more relaxed and friendly around Roger after that. The conversations he had were less awkward, the questions more interested and animated. All in all it was a good turnout for him. Better than he had expected.  
   
It was probably the reason that - sometime over the course of the evening and with more animated and easier conversation with his fellow players - Roger lost sight of his, now former, rival. It wasn’t like Rafa particularly liked these kind of parties and Roger could only assume the younger man had simply left without telling him. It was disappointing but then again Rafa didn’t owe him anything. And Roger would still be here in the morning, at the very same hotel the Nadal entourage was residing in. Maybe Rafa simply hoped for a more private forum to say his goodbyes to Roger.  
   
As it turned out Roger was wrong. He had decided to step out of the rented ballroom and onto the patio out front after what felt like hours of being inside the now stuffy room. The cold air was uncomfortable in comparison to the warmth inside at the very first moment but then it immediately felt refreshing. The noises died down as the glass door fell closed behind him. It was pretty much freezing and he knew he wouldn’t be able to stay out here for very long without starting to feel chilly. But a moment of quiet and a chance to be by himself and  regain some semblance of comfort and confidence was all he needed.  
   
Roger closed his eyes and took a couple of deep breaths, hoping to clear his mind and gather enough energy to get through the rest of the evening. A sudden uncomfortable feeling of being watched settled in the pit of his stomach. He tried to ignore it, tried to tell himself it was just his mind playing tricks on him but the feeling simply wouldn’t subside. He turned around abruptly as the feeling got suddenly so overwhelming he felt the urge to act on his paranoia. As it turned out, he wasn’t being paranoid. He had company. Rafa was there, leaning against the wall right next to the glass doors, arms crossed, intently looking at him with a somber expression on his face that betrayed little to no emotion.  
   
“Rafa… What are you doing out here all alone? It’s freezing! You’ll catch a cold.”  
   
“I’m not alone, no? You’re here with me.”  
   
Roger managed only a dumbfounded stare in response, that quickly turned into an exasperated look stating all too clearly that he didn’t appreciate the semantics and the deflective tactics Rafa was trying to use on him. Obviously it was having the desired effect. The younger man pushed himself off the building’s wall he had used for support, stepped closer to Roger and finally shrugged in response.  
   
“I needed fresh air and a little bit of quiet. Large groups of people are difficult…”  
   
“I thought you were okay with that now…”  
   
“Not okay. Better. Dealing…”  
   
Roger nodded slowly at that, feeling unease settle in the pit of his stomach. He had no idea why he had expected Rafa to simply be okay when he himself still had a hard time coming to terms with the trauma of Paris from time to time… After all Charlotte was not some miracle worker and the trauma hadn’t just magically disappeared – for neither of them. It had taken the better part of the last half year for them to eventually find a way to deal. Rafa pulled him from his thoughts, suddenly changing the topic but not lifting either of their spirits with it. This was the moment Roger had been both waiting for and dreaded. The moment to say farewell…   
   
“It won’t be the same without you.”  
   
“That’s what I kept saying during those months you were… you weren’t competing.”  
   
“But I came back.”  
   
“That’s hardly a fair comparison. You did what you wanted, what you had to do and so am I.”  
   
“I still don’t like it.”  
   
Roger couldn’t help but chuckle at the statement. Unlike so many of the other players he had talked to tonight, Rafa was being completely honest with him, not caring if Roger liked what he had to say to him. He could understand the younger man’s sentiment and he actually felt a little bit flattered and more at ease now. At least one person on the tour told clearly and openly told him he would be missed and that it was not a good feeling to see him go.  
   
“I know. A lot of people don’t. And I guess a lot of them actually do after everything… You though, you’ll be fine.”  
   
“I never said I wouldn’t be fine. Just not the same…”  
   
Not knowing how to respond to that, Roger opted for a smile. They kept standing there next to one another in silence until the cold of the winter night air got too much to bear. Roger made a gesture towards Rafa indicating that he would go back inside to get warm again, urging the younger man to follow him. Instead of accompanying him though, Rafa reached out a hand, touching Roger’s forearm for the briefest of moments, silently asking him to wait just a moment longer. It took a while before Rafa looked at him and even longer for him to manage a verbal response, the words low and unsure when they finally came out.    
   
“I never thanked you...”  
   
“For what?”  
   
“Keeping me alive until help arrived that day in Paris. I never thanked you for that. I should have.”  
   
Five months… It had been five months since Roland Garros, five months since the attack and for the first time since then Roger heard the very words he had been waiting for ever since he had known Rafa had woken up from his drug induced unconsciousness. He had hoped for the younger man to call him back then, had been disappointed when he hadn’t and had been devastated when he had found out it was because Carlos had told Rafa about the letter… Now that he finally got the show of appreciation and gratitude he had been waiting for so long, he felt strangely detached and almost a little embarrassed at it. His instinctual reaction was a shake of the head.  
   
“You don’t owe me anything, Rafa…”  
   
“I know that. But you deserve a thank you. I was angry at you for a long time…”  
   
“You had every right to be…”  
   
The look they shared was one of apprehension and sadness at their inability to simply accept the other one’s feelings. It seemed they kept going in circles whenever the topic of the attack on Rafa and the subsequent consequences came up. It was a cycle they really needed to break and as this was Roger’s last official day on the ATP tour, it was pretty much the last chance they had at it. Knowing that it was somehow easier for Roger to simply propose that solution than it had ever been before when talking to Rafa since the attack. To both his surprise and delight, the Spaniard seemed to share the sentiment, taking his sweet time with a response but finally rewarding Roger with a very soft smile.  
   
“Let’s just make a deal. I’ll accept your gratitude, you accept my apology. How about that?”  
   
“Okay.” 


	53. From the sidelines

*Two months later - 2020*  
   
   
Switzerland  
   
The Australian Open had started five days ago and Roger had been uneasy the entire time. He had been asked by the tournament officials to take part in a commemorative event but had declined and now he had the distinct feeling he had made a mistake in not going to Australia. He was half  a world and several time zones away and if anything were to happen during the tournament, he would find out when it was long over…  
   
It was worse whenever Rafa played and won his matches. Every time he advanced Roger’s anxiety grew. He had spent a lot of time on the phone with Charlotte during that time trying to determine what was wrong with him until she had told him in no uncertain terms to stop lying to himself and to simply ask the question to his wife if he himself couldn't get to the bottom of his feelings. It was exactly what he had done and Mirka's answer had been plain, simple and right on the spot.  
   
“You're afraid Paris will repeat itself. This is the title to equal your record. You're afraid that lunatic from Paris will try to stop it from happening again.”  
   
“So what do I do.”  
   
“Call Rafa. Talk to him. If anyone can put your mind at ease it will be him.”  
   
It was good advice at least from a one sided point of view. Considering only what he needed and what would help him, talking to the source of his anxiety definitely was a solid plan. But there were other things to be taken into consideration. This wasn’t just any tournament. It was the very first Grand Slam Rafa competed in since the attack in Paris. Knowing how hard it was to deal with the emotional fallout first hand and having Rafa tell him he was still struggling with it during that evening after the world tour finals, the last thing Roger wanted to do was to distract the Spaniard and thereby destroy his chances at getting far in the tournament.  
   
“I can’t do this. He’s right in the middle of an important tournament. He needs to concentrate.”  
   
“And you need to relax. I’m pretty sure he would gladly help you out. Just call him.”  
   
In the end Roger once again had to admit that Mirka was right. Distracting Rafa was not okay but his wife was on the right track telling him that Rafa probably wouldn’t mind and actually would be glad to help out if he could. In the end that thought was what helped Roger to decide. Instead of simply calling Rafa up and risking to disturb him during some team meeting or a practice session, Roger sent him a text message giving the younger man the chance to tell him when a call would be convenient. Instead of receiving a text in return, his phone rang a couple of minutes later.  
   
Rafa had been at lunch when Roger’s text message had popped up on his phone, only half listening to something Carlos was saying about the weather conditions and the forecast for the next couple of days. Carlos was worried about the humidity and the heat but then again Carlos was almost always worried about something these days… Sometimes Rafa felt like his coach was actually more nervous being back at the first Grand Slam since Roland Garros than Rafa himself felt about it. He was preoccupied by the text message, curious to find out what Roger wanted and couldn’t help but wince when Carlos tone of voice turned from concerned to reproachful.  
   
“Have you been listening to a single word I said?”  
   
“It’s hot, it’s humid, you’re worried. I’ll be back in a moment.”  
   
Rafa got up from their table, not wanting to call Roger with Carlos listening in on the conversation. He gave Carlos, who was staring at him with barely contained exasperation, a grin, hoping to diffuse the tension with it. Carlos was grumbling something under his breath as Rafa stepped away and the soft words sounded very much like profanities. Rafa was sure to have heard the words ‘careless’ and ‘idiot’ somewhere in there as well. Carlos really was tough to deal with at the moment… Hopefully Roger would be in a better mood than his coach.  
   
“Hola Roger. I got your message…”  
   
“Yeah… Sorry about the timing… I hope I’m not interrupting…”  
   
“No, it’s fine. We just had lunch. How are you? I thought you would be here, no? There was supposed to be some kind of pre tournament ceremony. For your six wins?”  
   
Rafa couldn’t help the disappointment seeping into his voice. It was exactly how he had felt upon finding out that Roger had declined being part of the ceremony the tournament officials had planned for him. He certainly hadn’t blamed the other man. After all he was no longer an active part of the ATP tour and traveling to Australia for just a couple of hours of some commemorative ceremony seemed a lot of effort for little gain.  
   
“Yeah, they offered me that but I declined.”  
   
“Why?”  
   
“Because shipping four kids and a wife that hates long flights halfway across the world for an hour of speeches and a shiny piece of metal seemed a little out there, even by my standards.”  
   
“You couldn’t be bothered?”  
   
“Let’s just say it’s Mirka’s fault.”  
   
Roger’s voice had dropped and Rafa could imagine the older man not wanting to his wife to hear that the blame had been passed to her, even though Roger had clearly meant it as a joke. Somewhere in the background a muffled and rather irritated ‘I heard that’ could be heard. Rafa chuckled at the reaction he was witness to happening halfway around the world..  
   
“Tell Mirka hi from me.”  
   
“Will do.”  
   
“Is this why you called?”  
   
“To tell you my wife couldn’t be bothered to sit on a plane for 22 hours? No. I… I just wanted to hear how you were doing… How is it going over there?”  
   
The nervousness was clearly audible in Roger’s voice and Rafa wasn’t exactly sure what had caused it. Maybe it was the fact that this was the very first Grand Slam in 20 years, Roger was not competing on. Rafa had tried to relate to understand what that would possibly feel like but he simply couldn’t. It wasn’t like he had never missed a Grand Slam due to injury, actually he had pretty much missed two of them just a couple of months ago. But still this was different. Roger wasn’t missing a tournament. He would never play one again. The least he could do was to put the older man’s mind at ease.  
   
“It’s good.”  
   
“Good… That’s… good.”  
   
“Roger, sorry but I don’t have a lot of time right now. Tell me what is wrong and maybe I can help.”  
   
Rafa had picked up on Roger’s discomfort as soon as the other man had started his discontinued rambling, like he was deeply lost in thought Roger was amazed at the show of sympathy -  it was quite frankly a little bit scary. But it also helped because this way he didn’t have to beat around the bush, too worried to distract Rafa from the tournament with his over excessive worrying. Still he chose his words with care.  
   
“I’m just worried… about you, about the security over there. You’re safe right? They take good care of you? Because, you know, this could be it… the one to equal the records.”  
   
“Technically you won Roland Garros last year. So it’s not a tie yet. And it’s not right now anyway. I still have to get to and win the final. It’s not something I can just do like that.”  
   
“You didn’t answer my question.”  
   
Roger couldn’t help the sharpness to his tone. Rafa had only answered parts of his question that much was true, but Roger wasn’t sure why he even thought Rafa was stalling about the security issue. There was no reason to believe there was any lapse in protection for the players over there at the Australian Open or that Rafa would be careless with his own security. Still Roger felt better actually hearing Rafa say it out loud.  
   
“I’m fine, I promise. Safe.”  
   
“As long as you’re sure…”  
   
“I’m sure.”  
   
The reassurance helped and Roger couldn’t help but smile at the realization that his wife had been right from the start. No amount of talking to her or to Charlotte had been able to achieve what that little conversation with Rafa had achieved. Roger felt more relaxed, more assured that there was no imminent threat lurking around. And this way he was able to concentrate on ending this conversation in a polite and friendly and absolutely heartfelt way that awarded him yet another soft chuckle from halfway around the world.  
   
“Good. That helps. Just… take care of yourself, okay? And good luck over there. I expect to see you with a trophy on Sunday.”  
   
“I’ll see what I can do about that.”


	54. A gruelling experience

*4 days later*  
   
Melbourne  
   
It had been a grueling last couple of days. Carlos had not been wrong to complain about the weather conditions. Even at night the temperature had never dropped below 25 degrees, going up to 35 during the day and being accompanied by a humidity so intense it felt hard to breathe some of the time. Having air conditioning around the hotel had helped some but then there had been the additional problem with a sudden nausea settling in, leaving an overall lack of appetite. Rafa hadn’t exactly felt sick, but still it hadn’t been pleasant.  
   
All in all it had caused Rafa to feel both unwell and exhausted and it had resulted in an inability to keep much of anything down that wasn’t water and even that had been a challenge. Of course Carlos had turned into an overprotective motherhen as soon as Rafa had told him he wasn’t feeling well and had talked to one of the officials about it. As if they could do much about the heat or the fact Rafa wasn’t feeling well… What they had done however was to send a doctor his way who had strongly advised him to withdraw.  
   
Carlos had been pleased with the doctor’s assessment and Rafa had been extremely pissed at the intervention. After all he wasn’t some inexperienced teenager any more in need of supervision or advice when it came to handling himself and deciding how far he could push himself. He had told Carlos as much and had met nothing but resistance and a complete lack of understanding. Obviously Carlos felt because he was older and possibly wiser, he had a right to make decisions for Rafa which the younger one wholeheartedly despised.  
   
They were still discussing it now and Carlos was very passionate about his opinion of the matter, more than Rafa could bear to deal with at the moment, given how lousy he already felt. But if there was anything he truly, intensely hated it was other people telling him what he couldn’t do, especially when it came to his health.  
   
It had been that way back in 2014 when he had been dealing with appendicitis; it had been that way in Paris when Feli had urged him to see a doctor about his back pain and now was no different. The whole discussion had been going back and forth for so long without actually turning up any kind of consensus that at this point Carlos and he had pretty much indulged in a yelling match, the one who gave up first probably also the one to win the argument.  
   
“You’re being stubborn!”  
   
“You’re being unreasonable!”  
   
“I’m being unreasonable?! I’m not the one risking my health for a tennis match!”  
   
“I’m not risking anything. And it’s not just some random match. It’s quarterfinals.”  
   
“It’s too damn dangerous!”  
   
“It’s just heat!”  
   
It had been Rafa’s main argument as long as this discussion had been going on. Weather – warm, humid, windy, rainy and cold one – was simply part of playing an outdoor sports tournament. It was no different to the past 15 years he had been playing professional tennis and he refused to give in to the fact that just because something about him and his health had changed, that meant the facts of how this sport was supposed to be played had changed as well. True to his overly careful and protective form ever since they had come here, Carlos didn’t let that argument stand of course.  
   
“And humidity and the fact that you have barely been able to keep anything down for two days now and a very strict advice from the tournament doctor not to do this! Do I have to remind you that you have just ONE working kidney and that both overexertion and the risk of dehydration are BAD for you. Why won’t you just listen?!”  
   
“This is my decision to make!”  
   
“We all know that. Believe me, we know… But you are wrong!”  
   
“How could you possibly know that?! Nothing has happened yet!”  
   
“We’ve been through this whole ordeal once before already! Or have you forgotten about that!?”  
   
Carlos was referring to Rafa's 2nd round match five years ago where he truly hadn't been feeling well, sidelined by a stomach problem that left him sweaty and dizzy and cramping all over the place. He hadn't been willing to give up then and if anything it only gave him more incentive not to give up now. After all he wasn't feeling sick or weak and he certainly wouldn't allow his coach or the tournament doctor to walk all over him without having so much as tried. So if Carlos had hoped to achieve drilling some perspective into Rafa by reminding him, he had thoroughly failed.   
   
“I was feeling far worse that day than I do right now.”  
   
“You still were in possession of both your kidneys and all your senses then!”  
   
“My senses are just as intact now!”  
   
“If that were true you wouldn’t make such insane decisions!”  
   
There was no common ground to be reached, not with Carlos being like that. They could be going at this for hours and hours without ever reaching a decision they would both be happy with. Rafa didn't have hours to spare though. His match was supposed to start in less than 45 minutes and this heated argument and the emotional tension that came with it were the last things he needed right now. Carlos however simply wouldn't let it go, no matter how hard Rafa had tried to force submission on the older man.  
   
“It will be fine…”  
   
“No, it won’t! You will hurt yourself out there… Please do NOT do this.”  
   
“Don’t tell me what I can and cannot do…”  
   
“I have to! You don’t see reason! You’re… you’re… irresponsible!”  
   
“I don’t care!”  
   
“See! That’s exactly what I mean…”  
   
Adding more fuel to Carlos’ fire definitely was the wrong path to tread. This discussion needed to end and if neither one of them could be the winner of the argument, Carlos needed to understand that as much as he tried to talk Rafa out of it, there was no chance in hell that he would withdraw from today's match. He hated arguing with Carlos like this, especially this close to the start of the match. But they needed to reach an end if Rafa wanted any chance to get into the right mindset before stepping out on court. If that meant Carlos felt overlooked and ignored, then so be it.   
   
“You can either be court side and support me or you can stay away. That are the only choices you’ll get.”  
   
“In that case I will stay away. I don’t need to see you torturing yourself, risking your health in the process. As much as this means to you, to any of us for that matter, it’s not worth risking your health over.”  
   
“It’s a good thing I’m not doing that then.”  
   
Carlos only huffed at that and for a moment Rafa was sure the older man would proceed to yell at him some more in order to continue this pointless discussion. But although it was clear to see Carlos had a lot more to say, he simply glared, the utmost belief that he was right and Rafa was wrong visible on his face and in his eyes. Finally he threw his hands up, taking a step back and then another, announcing defeat.

“The hell you're not. But if that's your decision, you're on your own.”  
   
Watching Carlos leave was one of the hardest things Rafa had been forced to do but he simply couldn't relent. Not today, not with this. The ironic thing was that Carlos wasn't exactly wrong to be worried, it was simply the intensity of that worry that was wrong. It was true Rafa had been feeling a little under the weather since last night. Presumably it was something the heat or maybe even something he had eaten that hadn’t agreed with him. It had made it increasingly difficult to keep properly hydrated as he felt nauseous pretty much every time he took so much as a sip of water. 

But it was by no means something that would sideline him to the point of being unable to play and it certainly wasn't something that threatened his health and well-being. As much as Carlos had tried to bring out the fact that he could relate to how important this was for Rafa, the younger man was sure his trainer could not. To to the extent that he needed to if he wanted to understand how much this first Grand Slam after the attack meant to Rafa. They didn’t understand, couldn't possibly... None of them understood how important this was to him. This being his first Grand Slam to actually compete in since the events of Paris, Rafa was determined to give it his all and leave Australia with the best result humanly possible. As it turned out, today he would have to do it all on his own...   
   
#*#*#*#

It turned into a grueling match and not having Carlos there, seeing him sitting at the player’s box, engrossed in the match, emphatic and supportive was a true blow. On top of that forcing himself to take at least a sip of water during every last changeover even though every last cell in his stomach seemed to protest the fluid being forced down was not exactly a pleasant experience either. But as uncomfortable and tough as it was, it was also doable.

It took more than three hours and a fourth set to get the job done but in the end Rafa was victorious.   
He felt a little too warm, a little light-headed and utterly exhausted stepping off the court but other than that he felt okay. Rafa wasn't surprised to find Carlos waiting for him when he returned to the locker room. Him being here probably meant that he had been watching the match after all but away from the stadium. Otherwise he wouldn't have known to be here. 

Carlos had his arms crossed, fire in his eyes and sharpness to his tone of voice. Rafa had hoped Carlos would finally have gotten over his protective streak seeing that things had worked out just fine but obviously Rafa looked worse than he felt because otherwise there was simply no explanation for Carlos acting like he was somehow responsible for Rafa and he had suddenly become unable to take care of himself. Carlos was still overreacting and by now Rafa was too tired to put up too much of a fight about it.   
   
“No press conference for you. You’ll be seeing a doctor. Right now.”  
   
“You’re not my nurse or my babysitter, Carlos.”  
   
“Right now I’m being both. You forced my hand!”  
   
“Stop being so melodramatic. I’m feeling fine.”  
   
“Fine my ass!”  
   
He had never once seen the fellow Mallorcan so disconcerted and furious. It wasn’t like Carlos wasn’t prone to outburst or the use of profanity but he didn’t usually do it this publicly. After all there were people around, officials, volunteers and even though most of them probably hadn't understood a word Carlos had been saying, his tone of voice made it abundantly clear that he had been cursing. 

He was pretty sure Carlos wouldn't refrain from manhandling him and actually drag him along if he didn't comply. It was infuriating and humiliating to say the least but as Rafa was sure he was doing alright, he indulged in Carlos antics, hoping to finally ease the older man's nerves once it was clear nothing was wrong and a doctor had actually given his okay on Rafa's condition. Unfortunately the plan backfired royally. The doctor wasn't exactly happy with him either upon his initial check-up.  
   
“You're showing clear signs of dehydration.”  
   
“I have been drinking on every changeover.”  
   
“Obviously not enough.”

The doctor's tone of voice was matter of factly but Rafa still didn't like it. He had done nothing wrong – except for the obvious fact that he had gone against the wishes of both his coach and the doctor and had played the quarterfinal. He had forced himself to stay hydrated even against the constant feeling of nausea lingering and now it seemed it hadn't been enough to satisfy the medical professional. Carlos of course felt immediately vindicated and sprang into action before Rafa had a chance to stop him.  
   
“So what now, doctor? Hospital?”  
   
“Carlos…”

Rafa's tone of voice had a warning quality to it, stating all to clearly that he didn't appreciate the way Carlos seemed to feel inclined to step in and take charge. The last thing Rafa would do was to go to a hospital because his coach had gone crazy and the ATP doctor was overly cautious. He felt fine after all and neither one of the two men would convince him otherwise. If Carlos was in any way impressed by both the stern expression on Rafa's face and the warning tone of voice, he certainly didn't show it. He kept talking to the doctor like Rafa had suddenly vanished into thin air and wasn't even here.   
   
“No, I don’t think that’s necessary. IV fluids would be helpful but they can affect kidney function… It’s not a risk I would be willing to take.”  
   
“What then?”  
   
“No further exposure to this weather conditions, lots of fluids and possibly bed rest.”  
   
“I’ll make that happen.”

“Carlos, I’m right here! And you are NOT going to send my to my room, to my bed and make me stay there because I was a bad boy in your opinion!”

Rafa finally lost the last remnants of restraint and composure he had still been holding onto while his coach and the doctor talk about him like he was some two years old who could be kept quiet with a pacifier while the adults decided which was the best course of action. He was done being treated like a child or an invalid and he would not allow anyone to make any decisions for him, even if that meant yet another ugly fight. To Rafa's utter surprise there was the softest of smiles on Carlos' face and his words were just as soft and understanding all of a sudden. It was like somebody had flipped a switch and Carlos was finally on board with him.  
   
“Nobody is forcing you to do anything. I’ve tried, I’ve failed, I’m trying to do better by you, okay? All I’m saying is you need to take care of yourself if you want to be ready for that semifinal in two days.”


	55. Back where it all started

*June 2020*  
   
Paris  
   
In the end the Australian Open had been a triumph through and through. There had been tough days like that one of the quarterfinals, but in the end the trophy and the title had been his and nobody – no matter how much they tried – had been able to stop him. Not even his own stupid body trying hard to betray and sideline him yet again. The final had been the only match throughout the whole tournament that had gone to five sets. Back in Switzerland, Roger had not watched that final. He hadn’t dared, too afraid something awful would happen now that the chance at equaling the record was a reality and no assurance from his wife or his therapist could bring him to watch. But nothing had happened. Rafa had won, nobody had tried to hurt him and now they were at an equal of 20 Grand Slam titles each.  
   
Of course the whole anxiety routine had started yet again when Roland Garros had come around. And this time neither Mirka nor Charlotte had been willing to let Roger get away with his growing levels of irritation. They both knew it was tough for him. It was the very first anniversary of the attack on Rafa and the trauma that had come with it and Roger had a hard time dealing with it, more so than usual. Finally Charlotte had been the one to put her foot down about the whole thing and had told him he needed a more confrontational therapeutic approach.  
   
Which was why he was here – in Paris and at Roland Garros – now. It was a strange feeling to be back here, especially as a spectator and not as a player. Roger couldn't shake the feeling that something, anything should have changed about the tournament side after that vicious attack on Rafa's life a year ago. But everything seemed exactly the same, like nothing had ever happened. HE and Rafa though knew the truth of the matter. Though they both had found a way to deal with the trauma, things would never return to the way they had been before... 

Mirka had taken it upon herself to give Charlotte a trip around the city as the American had never been to Paris before. Both of them had come along to support him but neither one of them had been willing to accompany him to the tournament grounds and watch Rafa play his 3rd round match. As the tournament officials had been elated to have him, he had not had any problems with getting seated court side or getting credentials to get a chance to go talk to Rafa – or any of the other players for that matter – afterwards.

As much as he had teased – and also honestly meant it – when he had told Rafa it was exhausting to play against him in a match, the more fun it was to watch without anything at stake for Roger himself. There were a couple of unforced errors and an overall sensation of absentmindedness on Rafa's part that cost him a couple of points. But overall it was a display of power and determination just as it was supposed to be when it came to this particular tournament. Roger was sure Rafa was preoccupied and maybe even scared or worried about being back here. He could share the sentiment. But to Rafa's credit he didn't let any of it show. 

Roger had been sure Rafa had detected him over the course of his match at some point but the younger man seemed genuinely surprised – and pleased – when they met in the players lounge about 40 minutes after the Spaniard's match had ended. Rafa had been attending to the usual post match responsibilities and when they met the younger man had showered and dressed in an off court attire, most definitely ready to return to his hotel room and recuperate for the rest of the day. Their greeting was heartily and Rafa actually teased him, earning a smile from Roger for his effort.   
   
“Roger, I didn’t know you would be here. I thought you don't play tennis no more?”  
   
“I don't. Doesn't mean I can't watch it any more. You were good. Really good.”  
   
“Thank you.”  
   
There seemed to be something else Rafa wanted to say but he stopped himself. He didn’t have to though. The look in his eyes was all too easy to read. No matter how well his coping mechanisms were in place this was still a very difficult experience. Returning here, playing another tournament and all of that with the memory of last years attack… Roger couldn’t imagine what that must feel like. He knew what it felt like for him and that was difficult enough already. Not giving Rafa the chance to indulge in those negative emotions, he hurried to explain his presence instead.   
   
“I just... I had to be here. I had to come back. You were not wrong when you told me I couldn't run from this... So this is me, fighting.”  
   
“Charlotte put you up to this?”  
   
“Sort of.”  
   
Rafa raised an eyebrow at him at the rather vague explanation and Roger couldn't help but smile. He had no idea how and when it had come to be that Rafa had learned to pick up on his discomfort so easily but it had happened a couple of times in the last couple of months now and Roger really didn't like it. It made it so much harder to keep certain things to himself. Then again he had been the one to call Rafa up during the Australian Open to put his mind at ease about the younger man's safety. There was no need to hide the distress he had felt prior to coming here now.  
   
“She suggested it. Strongly and vocally on every occasion she got. “  
   
“Is she here?”  
   
“Yeah. She came along. She seemed to think I needed the support.”  
   
“Why?”  
   
“Because I was a mess during the Australian Open, you know… The closer you got to equaling the record, the more afraid I was something bad would happen. Charlotte and Mirka had a trying time to keep me straight and they didn’t want a repeat. And when my wife joined in on telling me I should be here to see for myself and ease my mind, I relented.”

Rafa nodded at that slowly, most definitely having been aware of most of this, at least when it came to how Roger had been feeling during the Australian Open. After all they had talked about it back then. Rafa's verbal reaction was sort of detached in comparison to the soul bearing Roger had just done but he was sure Rafa didn't mean to be rude. Quite frankly he believed the younger man had no idea how else to respond to it.   
   
“Good for you.”  
   
“Yes it is. How about you? Are you… okay?”  
   
Rafa shook his head almost immediately, wearing that saddened, almost defeated expression on his face at the revelation and Roger’s heart fell. Having seen Rafa out on court, he had known the younger man was preoccupied but seeing his reaction now he was very sure it ran deeper than a couple of unwanted thoughts and some worries about security. Being back here was not a good experience for Rafa but - as he had said so himself – running away from it was simply something that wasn't in Rafa's blood. So he was hear, fighting through it.   
   
“It’s tough. Being here again with the memory… I don’t sleep well… I don’t think I play well…”  
   
“You can be thoroughly at ease about that part. You were great out there. About the not sleeping though… Maybe I… Would you like… Should I send Charlotte your way? To maybe talk to her? Ease your mind?”  
   
“I would like that. Not today though. I have other plans.”  
   
“What kind of plans?”  
   
Roger realized a split second too late that it was most definitely none of his business what Rafa had planned for the evening. As pleasantly surprised and happy as the Spaniard had been upon seeing him here and as nice, friendly and easygoing as the conversation was between them, they still weren't close friends. Rafa didn't seem to mind the nosiness though and there was a simple explanation for that. Unbeknownst to Roger, he was part of Rafa's plans for tonight.   
   
“Dinner.”  
   
“Excuse me?”  
   
“Dinner, Roger. That is what I have planned. A meal in the evening and I want you to come with. You don’t play tennis anymore but you still eat, no?”  
   
“Yes of course I eat.”

Roger couldn't help the astonishment and slight exasperation to his tone of voice at Rafa's question. It wasn't only the teasing tone to Rafa's voice but the idea for both of them to... go out together, even if it was just to have a meal. However it seemed none of Roger's reluctance came across because Rafa was grinning at him, nodding vigorously in appreciation.   
   
“Great. Dinner then. You be in the lobby by nine and I’ll take you.”  
   
“You want to go out to dinner with me?”  
   
“Yes.”

There was little room for argument left judging from Rafa's tone of voice and quite frankly Roger didn't want to. After all both Mirka and Charlotte had wanted him to come here to get a chance to see in person that Rafa was handling being back here at Roland Garros, easing his own anxieties in the process as well. What better way to make sure things were alright than to spend some more time together. Roger finally shrugged, having to admit the idea of having a nice quite dinner with his former rival didn't sound bad after all.   
   
“Okay…”


	56. Dinner and a show

*Later that same day*  
   
It felt extremely strange to get ready for that dinner date – and Roger simply couldn’t put it any other way – Rafa had bestowed upon him. He was nervous to the point of fidgeting and not getting things done that usually weren't a problem for him... like buttoning a shirt properly. He had no idea what the hell he was so nervous about though. After all it was just a simple meal. It wasn't like there were any expectations or any weirdness between him and Rafa. 

His wife had thoroughly enjoyed the show Roger was inadvertently giving her as he was trying to get ready in time, looking for things he had misplaced, having a hard time figuring out what best to wear and being an over all clumsy nervous wreck in the process. She had ordered some wine from room service, was settled on the couch in the main room nursing her second glass and had a smile on her lips the entire time while watching him. Right now however was the first time she actually commented on his behavior.   
   
“You act like a teenager on their first date.”  
   
“Because that’s exactly what it feels like! Why would he do this?! He never invited me to dinner before… I feel like a damn high school girl on prom night.”  
   
“You look the part, too. You’re blushing. Might want to get that under control before you go out…”  
   
“You’re not helping!”

Mirka had been chuckling throughout the entire exchange while Roger was getting more embarrassed and self-aware with every passing second. She was enjoying this way more than Roger appreciated and it certainly didn't help to calm him down. He gave her a soft glare, watching her as she finished her second glass of wine, giving him a shrug in response to his irritated staring. 

“I wasn’t trying to. I’m thoroughly enjoying this. Let me have my fun.”  
   
“I should make you come along. You can chaperon us.”  
   
“You don’t need a chaperon. What you need is to relax. It’s just food Roger. Two former… let’s say colleagues having a meal together. It’s not a big deal.”

“It is because he never asked me out before!”

Roger bit his lip realizing what exactly had just slipped past his lips in reply a second too late. Of course he hadn't meant to say it like that and it was not how he felt about this evening out with Rafa. He was simply nervous, the idea of going to dinner with a former rival foreign to him. But Mirka was having the time of her life with his impetuous response. His wife was laughing now. 

“Asked you out?!”

“Forget I said that...”

“Never. Not in a million years. I'll go and meet up with Charlotte. She'll get a good laugh out of that one. You go and have fun, honey. But call if it's going to be late.”

“You're impossible!”

“And enjoying every last second of it. Have a good evening and say hi to Rafa for me.”

#*#*#*#

Mirka had left him alone and had gone to see Charlotte just as she had planned. He assumed the two women would have dinner together as well. And they most definitely would have a good time laughing about his inability to get ready for an evening out with a former fellow player... Roger himself was in the lobby of the hotel exactly a minute past nine and of course Rafa wasn't there yet. Having to wait unfortunately only fueled Roger's nervousness. It was needless to say that the exchange with Mirka had not helped to calm Roger's nerves in the slightest. 

When Rafa finally showed up a couple of minutes later dressed in jeans and a white dress shirt, Roger refrained from telling the younger man that he cleaned up quite nice. After the strange hour he had getting ready and his wife teasing him relentlessly about it, he didn't want to risk saying anything that could possibly make him blush again. Instead he opted for a tiny bit of reproach. After all they had set a time for this meeting... 

“You said nine. You're late...”

“It's only ten minutes.”

“Well, I'm Swiss you know. We have a thing for punctuality.”

“I have never been good at that.”

“Yeah, ain't that the truth. Mirka says hi by the way...”

He was surprised how Rafa's face fell at the mention of Roger's wife and needed a moment to understand that Rafa hadn't known Mirka was here and obviously felt he had been rude in only inviting Roger to dinner. After all Roger had only told the Spaniard about Charlotte accompanying him to Roland Garros and Roger only now realized that it wasn't a given any more that Mirka accompanied him. After all he wasn't a part of the ATP tour any more. He vehemently declined Rafa's offer to ask Mirka to come along though. The last thing he wanted was his wife chuckling and teasing throughout the entire evening while sitting at the same table with them. 

“She is with you? I didn't know... She can come along if she wants to.”

“No! No... It's fine. She'll be spending the evening with Charlotte... So... will you tell me where we’re going or is this some sort of blind date?”  
   
“No date. Just dinner. Sushi would be nice.”  
   
Roger made a face at that. He knew Rafa had a thing for fish and sea food that probably came natural with the fact that he had grown up on an island. It was something Roger definitely didn't share, especially when the sea creatures came in a raw form. It wasn't exactly his idea of a nice dinner.   
   
“I prefer my meals cooked, thank you very much.”  
   
“No worries. They have that too.”

The discussion seemed to be settled with that and as Rafa had been the one to suggest they have dinner, Roger relented. Hopefully Rafa's choice would be some sort of Asian restaurant that offered something along the line of fried rice or chicken. At least that way Roger wouldn't go hungry the entire evening on top of feeling like a complete idiot about his earlier nervousness. He was in luck. The restaurant was a Japanese one but just as Rafa had promised him, there was stuff on the menu that wasn't sushi.

They ordered their meals with Rafa's plate arriving first of course, which was no wonder given the fact that nothing on there had even seen the vicinity of an oven or a pan. Roger couldn't help but tease while watching the younger man dig in but either Rafa decided to ignore him or he simply didn't comprehend the joke behind Roger's words.   
   
“If you eat any more of that stuff you either grow gills or will get mercury poisoning.”  
   
“Sorry?”  
   
“Forget about it. As you pointed out there was something on the menu normal people can eat. It just takes longer. Because that they actually cook.”  
   
“Did you just say I’m not normal?”  
   
“Not when it comes to eating, you’re not.”

The waiter chose that exact moment to show up with Roger's order and if Rafa had anything to say in response it was cut short by the food arriving. It smelled good and unlike the contents of Rafa's plate, Roger's meal was definitely cooked. The Swiss couldn't help but grin.   
   
“See now that is a real meal.”

They continued their meal in silence for a little while, which gave Roger a moment to finally calm his thoughts. One of them however simply wouldn't go away. He probably shouldn't be asking as it wasn't exactly an adequate dinner topic but after all the main reason for coming here was to put his mind at ease about a repeat of last year's events being possible. It was only natural his mind kept returning to those thoughts and in the end he decided to simply ask Rafa about it, leaving it to the younger man to either answer or tell him off.   
   
“Are you ever afraid that he... might come back? That guy who attacked you, I mean. Are you afraid he might return to try again? Finish what he started...”  
   
“All the time.”

Rafa's answer was plain, simple and heartbreaking. He wasn't looking at Roger for a long moment but as the silence dragged on Rafa finally raised his head. The expression on his face was just as devastating as the words. Roger tried to remember the last time he had seen both since of fear and defeat on Rafa's face. Honestly he couldn't remember. There had been a lot of negative emotions in between them over the last couple of months – blame, anger, guilt, awkwardness and probably a couple dozen more, but Roger had never seen Rafa like this and it scared him. Especially because the younger man somehow still managed to go out on court and win matches... Quite frankly he didn't understand how any of that was possible if the thought of a repeat of the attack was always at the back of Rafa's mind.   
   
“How do you do it then? How do you go out there every day and not run away screaming instead.”  
   
“I focus.”  
   
“Focus alone doesn’t help against the panic. Believe me. I’ve tried.”  
   
“Maybe I’m different.”  
   
“Yeah, maybe…”  
   
Roger knew he sounded sad and subjugated but he had to admit to the fact that Rafa was handling things better than he ever had. Admitting he was scared most of the time and still finding the will and calm to be here in Paris where it had all started was a feat even by the highest of standards. Rafa was looking at him across the table, his food abandoned and there was earnest compassion showing on his face.  
   
“You are not weak, Roger. Never was, never have been. It is different for me. What happened it was not the same for us.”

“No. It was worse for you.”

“The injury was worse. The emotions... I don't know. I barely remember anything. I know you were there and Carlos and there was pain and then I was very cold and very tired... I was never afraid... Not then.”

“But now you are.”

Rafa nodded at that, not managing a verbal reaction. The rather light-hearted spirit that had accompanied their evening out together so far had vanished and only a subdued and somewhat wistful feeling had remained. It wasn't what Roger had wanted. He hadn't come here to make Rafa feel bad or cause him to be even more preoccupied than he had been before. He tried for a smile though he had a hard time making it a heartfelt one. Talking about this he really didn't feel like smiling, but Rafa deserved a little bit of reassurance. 

“I know it's little to no consolation but I don't think he will try again. He had a lot of chances over the last couple of months and with the tie you reached at the Australian Open there really is no point to it anymore, don't you think?”

“I don't know.”

There was no use keeping this conversation going. It was clear to see Roger wouldn't be able to convince Rafa not to worry, especially because he wasn't entirely convinced himself, no matter how much of a brave face he put on. It probably would have been better not to start with the whole topic in the first place but what was done was done now. Instead he decided to change the topic and do what he had planned on ever since Rafa had invited him. Somehow with his surprise at Rafa asking him to join him for dinner, Roger had managed to completely ignore the fact that it was the sixth of June. Which meant Rafa's birthday had been only a couple of days ago. It wasn't like they had ever exchanged birthday presents before but Roger had – with the help of Charlotte – actually come up with something that was both unique and maybe even of help with Rafa's predicament.   
   
“Happy belated birthday by the way.”  
   
“For me?”

Roger had pulled a small metallic cylinder from the small bag he had taken along, containing his wallet and the key card to the hotel room along with the little present he had brought. Placing it on the table Roger had to hide back a chuckle as he watched Rafa frown at the odd present. Obviously the Spaniard didn't know what to make of it. Roger hurried to explain the metal cylinder to the younger man.   
   
“It’s a time capsule. Charlotte suggested it. So actually it’s her present not mine. She gave one to me as well but it was a little bit bigger. I put some stuff in there I had with me during last year’s final. You bury it. We did in our garden back home.”  
   
“Why?”  
   
“It’s a symbol of letting go, letting the pain subside… It’s a little cheesy but I think it helps. Maybe you find something you want to put in there and then bury it on that island of yours.”  
   
“It’s not my island. I just live there.”

Ignoring the humility in Rafa's statement completely Roger simply shrugged. To him it didn't matter where Rafa buried his time capsule as long as he did it. To him there had been a feeling of catharsis doing this, a feeling of closure. It hadn't really meant anything in the big scheme of thins, after all it was just a metal cylinder full of stuff buried in the ground. But to him it had meant a lot and he hoped Rafa would fee the same.   
   
“Or maybe you take the boat and drop it into the ocean. Seems more fitting.”  
   
“What did you put in yours?”  
   
“I… erm…”  
   
“You don’t have to tell me. It’s okay…”  
   
“The watch I was wearing that day. My shirt…”  
   
“You kept that?”  
   
Rafa sounded almost horrified at the revelation and Roger only managed a nod in response. He had all but forgotten about that little fact that on the day of the attack, he had forbidden his wife from throwing his ruined and soiled shirt out. It had ended up in a plastic back at the very bottom of a bag and when Mirka had cleared out their stuff after returning home, the shirt had somehow still not been thrown out. It seemed she had instinctively known there was more to it than a simple piece of fabric.   
   
“Mirka wanted me to throw it out right after… after she found me and I said no. I had almost forgotten about it… And when Charlotte came up with the idea, Mirka found it for me…”  
   
“Must have been dirty.”  
   
That was the most blatant euphemism for what the shirt had looked like when he had stuffed it into his time capsule. But he couldn't very well tell Rafa they had never even dared to take it out of the plastic bag it had been in, with the dark brown stains of long dried blood on it. Quite frankly Roger had been glad to see the thing go. Rafa seemed deeply lost in thought and it wasn't until he put that thoughts into words that Roger found out what was bothering the younger man.  
   
“I don’t think I have anything from that day left… The hospital took it away.”  
   
“I'm sure you can find something. It could be something symbolic. And anyway you don't have to do this...”

Rafa snatched the cylinder off the table at Roger's words, as if he was afraid the Swiss would take it away from him again. Roger smiled softly. He was sure Rafa would find some use for Charlotte's time capsule and he could only hope the ceremony of doing this ritual burial of old feelings and fears would be useful. For the time being, Rafa seemed happy and glad with the present given to him. It's use was yet to be determined. 

“No, it's good. I will. Thank you, Roger.”


	57. Muscle memory

*2 days later – early afternoon*

Paris

In retrospect the evening out with Rafa and the nice dinner and the heartfelt conversation they had shared had quelled the last of Roger's worries. He had been relaxed after that and both his wife and his therapist had been pleased. He had achieved what he wanted by coming here and there was no real reason to stay. He decided to do it anyway and he decided to demand both Mirka and Charlotte accompany him to see at least one of Rafa's matches. 

He felt they owed that to the Spaniard, especially because Rafa's quarterfinal match would happen on the exact same day the attack had happened a year ago. Roger didn't even want to imagine how Rafa felt about that but he knew the younger man could use all the support there was getting through that day and having to play competitive tennis on top of it all. 

It was late in the first set of Rafa's quarterfinal match – that had been once again been an utter display of dominance up to this point – when it happened. Somewhere outside the stadium several loud cracking sounds could be heard. It was probably fireworks but still Roger flinched and he was not the only one. Down on the court Rafa missed a step at the cracking sound of whatever the little explosion was. He recovered quickly, picked up the pace and tried to still recover the ball that his opponent had put back into play. He had to stretch to reach the ball, barely managed and the shot landed in the net. Rafa, his momentum still pushing him forward, was unable to keep his footing. 

He twisted, lost his footing completely and fell, stretching even further in an awkward motion. For a moment the entire court was so silent one could have heard a pin drop. Roger was intently staring at Rafa who was still trying to find both his composure and his footing again. Whatever gratefulness and elation Roger felt when Rafa managed to get back on his knees and then on one foot was evaporated when the Spaniard suddenly winced, his face scrounging up in a grimace of pain. 

He was clutching at his stomach just above the spot where Roger knew one of the scars from his surgery was. It took another moment but Rafa finally managed to get back on his feet again but he was still pressing a hand to his stomach. Play should have commenced but obviously something was seriously wrong because instead of walking back to the baseline, Rafa walked over to his bench and Roger could see him talking to the umpire. He was too far away to hear what was exchanged but he was pretty sure Rafa had asked for either a trainer or a doctor...

Roger watched as the younger man gingerly settled down on the bench, still keeping a hand on his stomach but not pressing at it so frantically any more. However the fact that the pain seemed to have subsided did nothing to calm Roger's nerves. Panic was settling in, threatening to wash over him like a tidal wave. He had never been more grateful to have Charlotte at his disposal and actually there with him right now. He turned to face her, his eyes wide and his tone of voice frantic. 

“What the hell happened?!”  
   
“I'm not exactly sure. But I think he remembered...”  
   
“The attack?! But that was almost a year ago... Why now?”  
   
“Maybe because it's not almost but exactly a year ago. Anniversaries are tricky... And then there's the physical proximity on top of that. Being back out there in exactly the same spot where it happened, doing exactly what he did that day as well and then the sound of those fireworks, the sound of something exploding... It triggered a deeply buried memory to break through to the surface...”

Charlotte's explanation made sense to Roger but only up to a certain point. His own reaction at the sounds of something cracking and exploding had been overly sensitive and he could very well imagine it was a lot worse for Rafa. But even if the sound of something blowing up had triggered a memory, it still didn't explain the grimace of pain or the fact that Rafa had been clutching at his stomach right where the scars were.   
   
“But he’s in pain!”  
   
“Muscle memory.”  
   
“Come again?”  
   
“It's the classic story of mind over matter. The mind vividly remembers pain and the body follows suit. It's the same reason why people like me – amputees – feel phantom pain. That's what it is.”  
   
“So he's not hurt?!”  
   
“Not physically, no. At least I don't think so.”

Their conversation was cut short by the arrival of one of the ATP doctors on court, who walked over to where Rafa was still sitting, only keeping a soft touch on the spot on his stomach that had bothered him before. The doctor knelt down and Roger watched as Rafa tried to explain what had happened. He couldn't hear what was being said and Rafa's gestures didn't help much to determine the cause of the problem either. The ATP doctor was nodding and said something that immediately caused an adverse reaction from Rafa.   
   
There was a short, heated discussion but there was so much noise around them and both Rafa and the tournament doctor kept their voices so low, none of the conversation actually carried up to where Roger was sitting. From what he could tell from Rafa’s animated gestures and the sour expression on his face, he wanted to continue but the doctor wouldn’t let him. That however made no sense to Roger. If this was just an emotional reaction to a difficult situation there was no need for a doctor’s concern…  
   
The doctor motioned for Rafa to take his hands aside instead of engaging in the argument any further. The angle was bad and Roger couldn't see exactly what was happening but he could hear Rafa grunt in pain at the ministrations. Roger felt a cold hard knot form in his stomach. Next to him Charlotte had gone quite. Seeing the expression on the doctor’s face right now, told Roger everything he needed to know. Whatever the man had done had caused Rafa pain and that meant there was a legitimate physical problem. 

The stadium had fallen quite at Rafa's pained reaction and this time the conversation actually carried as the doctor urged Rafa to withdraw from the match. The words ‘ambulance’ and ‘hospital’ were audible over the sudden silence that had befallen the entire stadium. Rafa's reaction was a long time in the making and it was clear to see how hard it was for him but finally he nodded in compliance. Roger let out a pained sigh. This had not been supposed to happen… But whatever had gone wrong down there on the court just now, it wasn’t just a flashback. This was bad.

Roger couldn't get any information on what exactly was wrong with Rafa right away. Nobody from his team seemed to be around when Roger left the stadium after it had been clear Rafa would not finish the match and would be going to a hospital instead and nobody from the tournament officials seemed to know any details apart from the fact that Rafa had been taken to hospital for further tests and treatment. 

Charlotte had tried to reassure him but it hadn't helped much. They had returned to the hotel and Mirka had done her best to reassure Roger as well but it wasn't until he had a message on his phone he actually fet he could cheer up just a little. The message had been from Rafa and Roger had been both surprised and pleased when the Spaniard had sent him the short text message, not exactly detailing how he was doing but at least letting Roger know how to find him.

'Georges Pompidou, Room 233, come visit'

Roger had an awful sense of deja vu taking a cab to get to that hospital yet again. He had done the exact same thing exactly a year ago and back then had been given the devastating news that the doctors weren't even sure if Rafa would pull through the surgery they were performing. In that regard today was a way better day. At least he knew Rafa was alive and well enough to send text messages around. He needed a little help from the nurse at reception but finally he did find his way to Rafa's room.

Entering after knocking Roger found the younger man sitting up in the only hospital bed inside the room, wearing sweat pants and a shirt and a blanket draped over his legs, pulled up to his knees. He was smiling when Roger entered but the older man wasn't fooled by the display. Rafa looked pale, his smile anxious and his whole demeanor that of somebody who felt utterly defeated. The picture was completed by an IV line in the crook of Rafa's right arm and an IV pole next to the bed . Whatever the problem was that had sidelined Rafa after that tumble on center court, it obviously needed to be dealt with with medication. 

Roger had stepped up to the bed but he wasn't exactly sure what to say at the sight of the younger man. Rafa's face betrayed no emotion – neither anxiety nor defeat. Rafa didn't give Roger the chance to ask the first most important question though. Instead Rafa's smile widened just a little bit, which only caused the younger man to look even sadder than before as he explained how things had been going for him ever since Rafa had arrived at the hospital. 

“My doctor who treated me last year came by to scold me. He had told me not to show up here again, first after Roland Garros and then again in November…”  
   
“It’s not like you planned on doing this!”  
   
“No. I planned on being in the final… I really like Dr. Mallarde, he’s a good man. But I hate this place...”  
   
“As you should. You've been here long enough last year. What happened?”  
   
The question had been asked now and Rafa took a long moment to answer. Of course he didn't need to tell Roger anything. This was his health after all and Roger had no right to intervene or demand any answers. But Rafa wasn't inclined to keep Roger in the dark Of course he wasn't. Why else would he have told Roger how to find him. Rafa's explanation sounded both unpleasant and painful and Roger couldn't help but wince in sympathy. 

“They say it's scar tissue from the surgery last year. It tore and there is some minor bleeding. Dr. Mallarde warned me about this in November… They try with medication for now. If that doesn't help, they'll do another surgery.”  
   
“Shouldn’t they do that right away? This sounds serious…”  
   
“It really is minor. They try to support the body with the medication to stop the bleeding. Sometimes it works, sometimes not. The medication thickens the blood though. Which means I have to stay for observation and they can make sure I’m fine otherwise.”  
   
“Are you though? Do you feel okay? Are you in pain?”  
   
Rafa shook his head at the question but Roger felt little to no reassurance at the gesture. Rafa had always been able to hide pain very well and Roger simply couldn't imagine that there was any chance Rafa was not in pain when he was suffering from internal bleeding, no matter how minor it was. It seemed Rafa was very much aware that his reaction had done nothing to put Roger's mind at ease so he tried again, using a verbal reaction this time.

“Discomfort. It’s okay.”  
   
“It doesn’t sound okay. It sounds dangerous… And what if it doesn’t work? How long would it take to recover from the surgery?”  
   
“Four to five weeks recovery time at least. I’ll miss Wimbledon…”  
   
“Better that then internal bleeding!”  
   
Obviously Rafa didn't know how to react to that other than to nod his head yes. It was true after all. His health came first and if another surgery would be necessary in order to get this new setback under control than that was how things would be. He allowed himself a moment of weakness – even with Roger there and watching – and let his head fall back onto the pillows behind him. This whole ordeal that had been today had taken it's toll on him and he felt utterly spent. His eyes still closed and his head resting on the fluffy pillow, Rafa could hear Roger stepping up to the bed and he could hear the scraping of metal on linoleum as Roger pulled up a chair and sat down next to the bed. Rafa had yet to look at him again but he did when Roger mumbled his next words more to himself than to Rafa.   
   
“So you don't remember... Charlotte hinted that... Forget about it.”  
   
“I do, Roger. The pain was there first but... I know now. I remember. I remembered before but only pieces of it. Now it's... it's all there... ”  
   
“You... I'm so sorry...”  
   
There was a long moment of silence that followed the revelation. It had been hard to deal with these new found memories after all this time and with the physical discomfort on top of it all. Rafa still had a hard time comprehending what he only now remembered about the attack on him. It were still mostly emotions but the pictures accompanying those emotions were clearer now, more vivid … and more painful. But at the moment his physical problems outweighed his emotional ones. There would be a right time to deal with all this but for the time being he was focused on the bleeding in his abdomen and the chance to get this back under control without loosing at least four to five weeks on the tour... 

Rafa did his best to sit up in bed a little straighter, fighting against both the fatigue and the discomfort he felt at the movement. He didn't want Roger to worry even more about him. Not for the first time since the attack and since they had conversed about this did Rafa have to tell Roger there was no need for guilt or apologies and yet again the older man simply refused to acknowledge his part in aiding Rafa and the gratitude the younger man felt for it.

“No. Don't be. I remember you. You helped. You saved me.”  
   
“The doctors saved you…”  
   
“You never hesitated. You never stopped. You never panicked. I know you don’t like it when I tell you but you did save my life. You once told me you will accept my gratitude if I accept your apology. I accepted your apology. Accept my gratitude. Please?”

Roger couldn't help but smile at the cleverness of Rafa's approach. It had been months ago, back in Asia and before his retirement that hey had this conversation but Roger still remembered it vividly. Rafa certainly wasn't wrong. Back then Roger had been determined to break their vicious circle of not being able to acknowledge what the one had done for the other. It was finally time to stop and Roger was giving Rafa the very same reaction he had gotten on his proposal on that late evening in Shanghai. 

“Okay.”


	58. Second chances

*4 weeks later*  
   
Switzerland  
   
Rafa’s injury had been successfully dealt with, with the help of the medication he had received at the hospital in France, the coagulation agents helping to stop the bleeding and there had been no need for surgery. He had been incredibly lucky, that had been the general consensus on the matter and nobody had expected him to achieve much of anything only a couple of weeks later at the tournament in Wimbledon.  
   
Now it was the second weekend of the tournament, the Wimbledon final was the next day and even through that bitter withdrawal in the quarter finals of Roland Garros, the injury that had caused it and the recovery from that, Rafa seemed to have had a great preparation for the third Grand Slam of the year and had managed a spot in the final. For some reason Roger wasn’t nervous about this one. His record had been equaled, Paris had come and gone and nothing bad – apart from the injury of course - had happened. Maybe that man who had attacked Rafa over a year ago, had finally given up.  
   
Roger had felt no need to go to Wimbledon and see any matches. Rafa was better, there was no imminent threat on the Spaniard's life and for the very first time after both the attack on Rafa and his own retirement, Roger felt relaxed and at ease. He hadn't talked to Charlotte ever since it had been clear that Rafa would overcome that tear in the scar tissue from the surgery without further complications and he felt good about himself. 

He had finally focused on what he had wanted to focus on ever since he had retired. He was a husband and a father first and foremost now and both his kids and his wife loved that change of pace in their every day life. They finally got to spend as much time with him as they wanted and though Roger had dreaded the change for a while, he felt wholeheartedly content about it now that things had settled for him. 

Today they had spent almost the entire day outdoors as the weather was beautiful. They had been at the nearby lake and the kids had a grant time at the waterfront and in the water. They had gone for a big family dinner in the late afternoon and it had already been time for the boys to get to bed by the time they had been back home. Mirka was currently taking care of tucking the boys in while Roger checked his messages. They had agreed not to take any cell phones along for their family outdoor day. But Roger couldn't help the feeling that it was best to at least check who had called or messaged him. If Paris had taught him one thing than that it was always better to be safe than sorry when it came to the sharing of information and news...

As if on cue with this particular thought, Roger found a message from the very media manager who had told him about the fan letter detailing the attack on Rafa more than a year ago. Te message was short, urging him to check his mails as soon as he got a chance to do it and decide what to do with the contents of that mail according to what he felt was right. The text message in combination with the untitled mail from his media manager Roger found upon checking into it was both strange and a little worrisome. Whatever the man had found among the piles of fan letters still arriving in copious amounts must have rattled him.  
   
The mail contained only two words ‘in time’ and there was an annex in the form of a jpg file. A cold hard knot settled in the pit of Roger's stomach and he needed a moment to gather his composure before he actually dared to open the annex. His media manager had taken a picture of a letter that must have been part of today's pile of fan mail and the letter in question that was staring back at Roger looked sickeningly familiar. The sight on the laptop display managed to take his breath away.  
 

>

___You never acknowledged what I did for you in Paris._  
_But I don't mind._  
_Surely you couldn't risk to be implicated._  
_I understand that and I'm not offended._  
   
_I deserve your disdain._  
_After all I couldn't stop that troublemaker from equaling your record_  
_I'm sorry I couldn't eliminate him from your life once and for all._  
_But not to worry._  
_I will make sure he won't get another chance to ruin your career stats._  
   
_I have new, exciting plans._  
_I'm sure you will enjoy the result._  
_I will know even if you can't say so in public._  
_I understand that too._  
   
_This time everything will be perfect._  
_This time I will make sure I do it right._  
_Blood looks so much more dramatic on a white surface anyway._  
_I will get a chance for that._  
_And this time I won't fail._

   
He felt sick. He could feel his stomach rolling at the pure and utter disgust he felt at the words and could see his hands trembling. His wife chose that exact moment to return from the boys' bedroom and she stopped dead in her tracks as soon as she saw the expression on Roger's face. She immediately knew something had happened in that few minutes she had been gone but she couldn't tell what it was. Roger's whispered words made no sense to her.

“I need to go to London. Now.”  
   
“What? Why? What's wrong?”  
   
Roger turned the laptop around for his wife to see and Mirka stepped up to the table and started reading. Roger could see how the letter impacted his wife with every last syllable she was reading. Her eyes were wondering over the display and Roger could tell she was reading the letter a second time before she pulled back one of the chairs at the table and sat down on it heavily. She seemed just as shaken when she was done reading as he still felt right now.  
   
“Does this mean what I think it means?”  
   
“That sick bastard who attacked Rafa in Paris is going to try again...”  
   
“But you don't know where or when! Why not just call his team or family and warn them? They can take care of it, they can get him protection.”  
   
“I do know! And there's no time! The Wimbledon final is tomorrow!”  
   
He could practically watch how Mirka put two and two together, her eyes scanning parts of the letter once more. She paled even more as soon as the realization hit her what Roger had been trying to tell her. It was all there in the letter, just like it had been 13 months ago in the details of the first letter Roger had only found out about after the attack on Rafa... 

“Wimbledon... I don't... Oh my god... A white surface... He... he's referring to the Wimbledon dress code...”  
   
“Yes! And he's going to try again, trying to finish what he started in Paris more than a year ago! He wants to stop Rafa from winning that one decisive Grand Slam title that would mean he surpassed me. He will try again. At Wimbledon. Tomorrow...”  
   
“Still why do you have to go there?! You can call them, they’ll take care of it and make sure Rafa will be safe. Or call the police for that matter!”  
   
“This is my chance to make things right… I… I have to be there.”

“I still think we should call the police. We have that contact for the inspector from Scotland Yard somewhere. I'm sure he will be more than willing to help.”

Roger couldn't deny the logic in that. However he could hardly imagine they would be able to reach anyone at Scotland Yard at this hour. It weren't exactly business hours any more... Mirka however was undeterred and already full of purpose. Roger could understand that. His wife wanted to do something, anything to show initiative and not have to look at that godawful letter for even a second longer. Roger only half listened as Mirka talked on the phone but he was surprised that she actually reached somebody. It was a short call and she summed up the conversation with the British police while simultaneously working on the laptop after she had ended the cal. Roger however didn't like where this was going. He had refrained from acting on the very same incentive over a year ago and he would be damned if he let it happen again.

“Inspector Wilkins wasn't there but I talked to his partner, who came to talk to you as well. Inspector Marcus? He said they'll look into it. I'm supposed to forward the mail to him...”

“That isn't enough. It can't be all we are doing about this...”

“You really want to go to London?”

“I don't want to. I have to.”  
   
It had taken a while to get everything organized. They needed to find someone to take care of the kids, their pilot needed to file a flight plan and in the end it took until the next day before they arrived in London and at the tournament grounds of Wimbledon. They hadn't heard back from either of the two inspectors from Scotland Yard and Roger had refrained from calling or texting Rafa so far. He hadn't wanted to worry the younger man. After all the British police was informed and Roger was sure they had taken care of Rafa's security. 

Reaching Wimbledon and gaining access to the tournament grounds wasn't the problem. Finding Rafa and actually getting a chance to talk to him tough turned out a somewhat bigger problem. The whole tournament was all about tradition and that made it very hard to get anyone to move even so much as an inch when it came to doing things outside the norm and deviate from the procedure they had been holding onto for years.

Roger wouldn't have minded, hadn't it cause a run in with a volunteer who simply refused to let him through on his way to the player's lounge where he hoped to run into Rafa. The volunteer very clearly knew who he was talking to, one could tell from his nervous and somewhat awed reaction. But he was being as stubborn as a mule when it came helping Roger out with the simple fact that he lacked any official document that would have actually allowed him access. The discussion had been going back and forth for almost a full minute and they kept coming back to the same pointo f discussion every time.  
   
“Do you have credentials?”  
   
“Cred… You do know who I am, don’t you?”  
   
“I’m sorry, Sir. But I can’t let you through if you do not have credentials. Everybody needs to have those, it’s mandatory. No matter who you are.”  
   
“Let me through damn it! This is a matter of life and death!”  
   
“No credentials, no access.”  
   
The volunteer, who seemed very proud of himself for standing his ground, crossed his arms in front of his chest and gave Roger a stern look. He doubted he would get very far with this man talking to him for any extended period of time and if they were running short on one thing in particular it was time... He could have let his wife try because she had come with him and seemed just as exasperated as he felt. Maybe she would have more luck with the stubborn young man.

He was in luck though because at this very moment – being denied access by that stubborn volunteer who definitely knew who he was and who could have let him through if only he had wanted to – Carlos Moya appeared behind the young volunteer most definitely on his way to the locker room to see his charge before the final began. Roger did the only thing he knew to get the other man's attention. He yelled his name… 

He watched Carlos stop, turn and his face crease into an annoyed frown when he realized who the voice calling out to him belonged to. To Roger's surprise the other man didn't react on his very first instinct and simply left as Roger had feared. Instead the Mallorcan actually walked over to him and Mirka. Carlos reaction however was one full of righteous anger.  
   
“Carlos! I need to speak with Rafa. Now!”  
   
“Have you lost your mind?! The final starts in two hours! Have you really sunken this low that you would distract him now just to keep your damn records unmarred?!”  
   
“It’s not about that! He’s in danger! How do you not know that?! The police was supposed to inform you! They were supposed to help and keep him safe! Please! Please, you have to believe me… This can’t happen again…”

Roger knew he was babbling and probably making no sense whatsoever but he couldn't help his reaction fueled by both fear and nervousness. This was his chance to set the record straight, to do things right by Rafa once and for all. This was his chance to expunge the mistakes he had made a year ago by reacting to a threat when it was already way too late. But as it turned out both fate and the simple fact that life was never as easy as one wished for it to be were standing in his way.

He was especially startled by the fact that Carlos seemed to be completely oblivious to the threat hanging in the air. He hadn't really listened in on the conversation and Mirka had only been on the phone for a couple of minutes but the police her in Britain had been informed and Inspector Markus had promised to look into the matter. Carlos should have known all this because Rafa should have know. But for some reason none of that had happened and Carlos was still very much irritated with Roger's disconnected jumble of words.  
   
“What the hell is going on with you? What is all this about?”  
   
“We received another letter.”  
   
Mirka was the one who finally relayed the most important piece of information, where Roger had all been about desperation and emotion. He could have kissed his wife for her levelheadedness right there and then but this really wasn't the time or the place. Carlos reaction was instantaneous. The anger that had marred his face disappeared and was replaced by shock and disbelief. The other man had visibly paled and needed a moment to find his composure again. Clearing his throat Carlos finally helped them achieve what Roger hadn't been able to talk the young volunteer, who had been following the whole exchange with wide eyes and growing anxiety, into. He invited them in., ignoring the volunteer completely in the process.  
   
“Why didn’t you say that right away… Come along then. I’ll take you to Rafa and the rest of the team.”


	59. Bait

*London*  
   
It had not been a happy reunion but then again the situation really didn't warrant happy smiles and hugs. Rafa's reaction had been pretty much a mirror of the one Carlos had shown. A rapid succession of surprise, confusion, disbelief and finally both worry and anxiety. They had relocated from the locker room to one of the empty conference rooms the press conferences were held in and the print out of the second letter lay on the table between them.

Watching Rafa read it had been gut wrenching. Roger knew from what Rafa had told him last year that he had seen the first letter as well, courtesy of Carlos giving it to him and telling him what he believed Roger's involvement in the whole matter had been. It was a tense and strangely strained atmosphere that had befallen the room while the two Spaniards – Rafa and Carlos – scanned the contents of the letter. Just as it had happened with both Roger and Mirka, it rendered them speechless at first.

When Rafa finally looked from one member of their small war council to the next, Roger felt a stab to the heart at the expression on the younger man's face. He hated to see the Rafa so obviously crushed at this new development and he felt for him. All Roger had been dealing with was the anxiety of not arriving here in time, of missing yet another chance to help and actually be useful. For Rafa however it was worse. He had tried so hard to convince himself that a repeat of the events in Paris wouldn't happen, that his attacker had disappeared not to ever return. Now however it was clear to all of them that the stranger had simply waited for the right moment. Roger couldn't even begin to fathom how it had to feel for Rafa knowing there was somebody out there dead set on taking his life... Given the enormity of it all it was a miracle the Spaniard managed to display any calm and composure at all. 

“Why… I just don’t understand. I never did anything to that person…”  
   
“You beat me.”  
   
“I was supposed to. That’s what the sport is all about! Beating your opponent.”  
   
“Not to this guy… Don’t let it get to you, Rafa. He’s crazy.”  
   
Rafa forced a small smile that held no humor or assurance. He was going through the motions, reacting to Roger's attempt at making him feel better as was expected of him. The Swiss words didn't help though. No matter how deranged the writer of that letter was, he was also determined and utterly invested in the idea that the sport and the people who had set records in it were better of without Rafa in it... The idea of anybody out there feeling so much disdain and hatred towards him they were willing to end his life for it, was hard to even comprehend, let alone deal with. Roger's next question pulled Rafa from his thoughts and he tried to focus. Roger had a point after all – they needed to come up with a plan of attack.

“What do we do now. Police was supposed to be here and inform you but as that hasn't happened I guess we have to come up with our own plans as to how to handle this..”  
   
“I hate to say it but I think we should let this play out.”

It was Carlos' suggestion and all Roger managed in return for the longest of seconds was a glare. He was pretty sure he looked like a fish on dry land, staring at Carlos with wide eyes and mouth pretty much hanging open. Carlos and Rafa shared a look, a silent discussion going on for a couple of seconds. It seemed they reached a consensus without needing much of any words. When Roger finally found his voice again righteous anger was dripping from it but Carlos stayed eerily calm, trying to get his point across and sounding so detached about it like they were talking about a cooking recipe instead of the very real possibility of another attack on Rafa's life.   
   
“Are you insane! You can’t do that. It’s too much of a risk.”  
   
“If we want to draw him out, it’s the only way…”  
   
“You want to use Rafa as bait?! You can’t possibly mean that!”  
   
“Carlos is right, Roger.”

Rafa's quiet and composed intervention had Roger speechless for a long moment. He only managed to stare at the younger man, sure he must have misheard what Rafa had said. He couldn't possibly believe that Carlos suggestion was in any way a good idea. The two men had reached that silent consensus but Roger refused to believe Rafa was willing to risk his health and possibly his life even if it meant to end this threat once and for all. He for one was unwilling to let the younger man go through with this insanity.  
   
“Have you all gone completely nuts?! You cannot do this! He could get hurt! Again… It’s just like the last time...”  
   
“No, it’s not. We have an advantage. Because this time we know he is coming.”  
   
“But we don't know anything for sure! The letter isn't exactly detailed. All it says it that he's sure he won't fail this time and that whatever he does will be during the match... He says there will be blood on the white attire... God, I'm so sorry we have to discuss this like that...”  
   
“It's okay.”  
   
“No, it's not. None of this is okay. You shouldn't have to do this...”  
   
Rafa rewarded Roger with a nod and a small smile, but ignored the sentiment behind the older man's words completely. Roger could understand why he did it though. Allowing much of any emotion to break through and get the better of them was a very bad idea at the moment. This was a devastating development, awful news and something that needed to be handled with care and a level head if they wanted a chance to make sure Rafa would be safe. Emotion would only get in the way of a favorable outcome.   
   
“Roger is right. How can he be sure? Last time he got to me on court using a distraction. But security has been very tight here...”  
   
”I don't think he will do that again. He said he had come up with a new plan...”  
   
“He has to be somebody with access to you. Unfortunately that doesn't narrow the field very much. There are ball boys and linesman, tournament officials, volunteers, even fellow players. It could be one of several hundred people...”  
   
“But he doesn't want to get caught. If that wouldn't bother him, he wouldn't have escaped in Paris. He wants to get to you but he doesn't want to be caught and end up punished for it...”  
   
A sudden idea popped into Roger's head and as uneasy as he felt at the prospect of this being the reason why Rafa's attacker hadn't been apprehended and punished in Paris and how he would be able to get close to the Spaniard here, it was a reasonable assumption. As Carlos had pointed out there were a lot of people with access to the players but only thew fewest of them would simply mention to get away in the aftermath of another attack. There was one group of people though that had come to Roger's mind just now that maybe had an advantage in getting away undetected because they knew exactly how to do it... 

“You said security is very tight...”  
   
“Yes?”  
   
“What if he's one of them? Somebody working for security? He could go practically anywhere, nobody would bother and he might even be allowed to carry some sort of weapon...”

Their small group shared looks all around and to Roger's satisfaction the general reaction was one of acknowledgment. It seemed they all agreed this was the best chance they had to find out who might possibly be responsible for this second letter and who the person was who planned on trying to attack Rafa again today. Mirka was the first one to react, joining into their conversation for the first time now.   
   
“That sounds reasonable... I think our easiest bet is somebody who has been recently employed. Maybe to stock up the personnel and meet the increased security requirements. Somebody they didn't check into too thoroughly.”

“I'll get somebody from the officials down here. They need to look into this.”

Carlos was up and out the door before anybody had a chance to comment. They had already been sitting here discussing this matter for a while now, which meant the final was a little over an hour away now. Slowly but gradually they were running out of time... They sat in subdued silence, neither one of them willing or able to engage in any small talk. It took almost twenty minute but Carlos finally returned, one of the tournament officials in tow. At least progress seemed to have been made because the official not only knew what was going on but had obviously checked into their request already. He gave a nod to everybody around but focused his explanations on Rafa. 

“Mr. Moya informed me there might be a breach in security and we checked our records... Well, we do believe we might have found somebody on the duty roster who fits the description of who you are looking for but I cannot point out strongly enough how... unlikely it is any one of the members of our security staff mean you any harm... These are volunteers of both the police and the armed forces after all. They are here because the want to and they feel honored being here.”

“At least one of them doesn't... One of them is here to act on his deranged beliefs and finish a cruel act of violence he started more than a year ago. One of them is not here because of altruism or honor. And you need to find him!”

The tournament official looked very much vexed at Roger's very straight forward and very passionate display of how he felt about this whole matter. The man couldn't possibly understand any of this. He hadn't been through all this once before, hadn't been the one to react too late the last time and having to watch and practically feel the life seeping away from Rafa because he hadn't reacted to a simple request to check into a document that had been sent his way. Roger glared at the man, his emotions lighting a fire in his eyes and that seemed to be enough to subdue the man into a more submissive reaction. 

“As I said, I think there is somebody on the duty roster fitting. We checked into the background he gave and found out he had been on leave during last years French Open to volunteer at the tournament there...”  
   
“He was in Paris, too…”

One could practically hear the worry dripping from Rafa's voice as he reacted to the news. The reality of it all was very much overwhelming. This was no longer just a discussion of possible outcomes and issues of security. If the Wimbledon official was right, there was a very real, very scary possibility that somewhere on the tournament grounds was a man who wished Rafa harm and who was determined to hurt him – again. Rafa winced, unable to hide back the reaction when Roger reacted to the news with enthusiasm and drive instead of dread and anxiety.   
   
“That’s got to be him! You have to get somebody to him, make some excuse and get him out of the picture without raising any questions or suspicions. Can you do that?”

“We will try our very best. For the time being I suggest you wait here. I will get back to you as soon as I have any news.”

The tournament official left them alone and he was barely out the door when Rafa got up from the chair he had been occupying. As much as he tried to display a sense of calm and composure, he wasn't quite pulling it off. There was a soft tremble to both his voice and his hands and a nervous edge about him that Roger had only ever seen out on court so far. It was easy to tell Rafa hated the idea of not staying within the relative safety of their little group but if they wanted any chance to see this through without anyone getting hurt, they needed to keep to the schedule appointed for today and not risk that the attacker was alerted before security had a chance to apprehend him. 

“I should go back, no? Act normal?”

“That's probably a good idea... Just be careful, okay. Don't let anyone stop you, don't talk to anyone. Just get back to the locker room and wait. This'll all be over soon.”


	60. reach the end and start again

*London*

The waiting around was the worst. It wasn't like either of them was a stranger to it – waiting for other matches to finish to get on court, waiting at airports, at press conferences, at interviews or sponsorship responsibilities. It was really nothing new but still this had a different quality to it because the stakes were one hell of a lot higher. There was an imminent threat on Rafa's life and if the tournament officials didn't manage to find the attacker, there was no telling how things would turn out... This threat needed to be dealt with and unfortunately the only thing they could do was wait and hope for the best. 

To Roger's surprise Carlos had stayed with them, waiting with them for the officials to come and tell them they had found the man and had neutralized the lingering threat, keeping Rafa safe in the process. Roger was pretty sure it had nothing to do with sympathy. It was simply because – as Rafa had pointed out before leaving – they needed to act normal. Accompanying Rafa to the locker room or telling the team and family and making them all nervous in the process certainly wouldn't have been a show of normalcy. So Carlos was with them when the tournament official returned... and had only bad news for them. 

“We checked the appointed post but there was nobody there...”  
   
“What do you mean there was nobody there?! He can’t have simply disappeared! Where is he?!”  
   
“We don’t know. We’re trying to find him now… Security has been alerted all around the stadium…”  
   
“Alerted? Please tell me you didn’t inform your security teams that there has been a potential breach in that security…”  
   
“Well of course we did.”

Roger had a very hard time not to curse or actually physically attack the damn official. How could anyone be that stupid?! Didn't they realize that alerting security to a threat was giving Rafa's attacker an advantage?! Now the man knew for a fact that his plans were no secret to the tournament officials or to Rafa for that matter. What little advantage there had been due to the letter being send to Roger in advance had just vanished into thin air and he simply couldn't help but to air his grievances.   
   
“You warned him, damn it! That’s why he’s not where he’s supposed to be, why he abandoned his initial idea! He’s been warned and what little advantage we had has just been tossed out the window! How could you!”  
   
“It’s SOP. Security breaches are relayed to the teams in charge!”

“How does that help when the breach comes from somebody ON security?!”

“There is no need to yell at me and quite frankly there is no use to it either. I can't change what happened. Apart from that you should appreciate the fact that he was not at his post PRIOR to us informing security about the breach. If he was alerted to the fact that he had been found out – if there even is any substance to this so called threat – it was not due to something we did.”

The tournament official, who obviously didn't appreciate being used as a punching bag for the emotional fallout of what had happened – had raised a rather delicate point. If the attacker had been gone before anybody had checked in on him, there needed to be another reason why and how he had known and Roger had the distinct feeling it might be his fault... Maybe Rafa's attacker had seen Roger, had heard him argue with the volunteer or talk to Carlos. 

As he had no idea who the man was exactly, there were a couple dozen situations in the past hour and a half in which he inadvertently could have warned the anonymous attacker simply by being here... He had to have known he was in trouble and at risk of being detected if Roger had come here to talk to Rafa's team. As deranged as the man had to be, he certainly couldn't believe that Roger was here to see the outcome of what that lunatic had planned first hand... 

Either way it was most definitely his fault that the attacker had been alerted to the threat on his plans. It didn't matter though. The only thing that mattered was to make sure that Rafa was safe now that the attacker had obviously changed and rearranged his plans. If Roger was sure of one thing in abundance, it was that the man wouldn't simply give up on his plans in the face of adversity. He would see this through, he had promised as much in his letter. He was set on not failing again... There were only so many places he could go and little time, especially if he didn't want to be caught. The tournament grounds certainly weren't small but sooner or later this guy would be found... which meant they had forced his hand into acting on his beliefs quicker and maybe taking a little more risk in doing so. It all culminated in the fact that Rafa was probably in even more danger now than he had been before the tournament officials had declared the breach in security... And as Roger knew exactly where Rafa was right now, he could only assume that would be where the attacker was heading to as well.   
   
“The players are still in the locker room?”  
   
“Excuse me?”  
   
“The finalists! Where are they?”  
   
“We announced that the match will be postponed and they should be back at the locker room now.”

“Damn it. That's where he'll be! He's security, he has access. We need to hurry!”

Roger was up and on his way to the door with a couple of quick, large strides, not turning or waiting to see if Carlos, Mirka and the tournament official followed him. He was sure he was right with his assumption and even though he was neither trained for anything like this or had even the slightest idea what to do if he would apprehend the attacker in the vicinity of Rafa he knew he needed to d something in order to a repeat of Paris from happening.

He rounded a corner, still pretty much jogging instead of walking, quickening his pace as he was close to reaching the locker room now. There was commotion at the end of the corridor and Roger felt his heart sink and his stomach turn into knots at the sight. There were several volunteers, two other tournament officials and Andy Murray who would have been Rafa's opponent in today's final. Roger addressed him first and if Andy was surprised at his presence here, he didn't let it show. The British player seemed to be very much aware of the fact that the current situation left no room for anything else but a quick evaluation of the facts. 

“What happened?!”  
   
“I... I don't even know... It all happened so fast... We were just on our way back in when somebody pushed me aside and pretty much tumbled into Rafa next, sending them both forward. Barely two seconds later the door was closed and seems to be locked from the inside...”  
   
“He's in there with Rafa... The door! You have to break it down!”

#*#*#*#  
   
Rafa still couldn't quite comprehend what had happened and how he had ended up trapped inside the locker room with the very man who had tried to kill him over a year ago but somehow it had happened. Just a minute ago everything had been fine. Rafa had been anxious, scared even, but he had felt a sense of safety knowing they were accompanied back to the locker room where there was only one way in and out. That very way was threatening to become his doom now though.

It had all happened within a couple of seconds and even his instincts hadn't been fast enough to make him react before it was all too late. He and Andy had been almost back at the locker room when yet another man – a member of police force and security judging from his attire - had seemingly appeared out of nowhere. Everything had seemed normal at first and then the man had burst into a sprint the very moment Rafa had pulled the door open, had pushed Andy aside, had tumbled into him and had both of them stumbling inside the room.

Rafa had almost lost his balance but he had been able to regain it, hadn't fallen in the aftermath of the tumble he had taken. But he had lost precious time. Unlike him, his attacker had known what he was doing and how to brace himself which gave him the little extra time he need while Rafa was regaining his balance and composure to shut the door behind them and locking it, leaving the both of them effectively trapped. 

Rafa's first instinct told him to step back and put as much distance between himself and the other man who had pushed him into the room as possible. His attacker was standing by the door, staring at him, utter contempt shining like a fire in his eyes. He could hear the desperate knocking and the muffled voices on the other side of the door but Rafa had no chance or way to react to them. The only way out was through the door the other man was blocking and the one thing Rafa was absolutely sure on, was that this man wouldn't simply let him go. 

He looked... normal and that fact struck Rafa more than it probably should have. There was nothing remotely strange or vicious or evil about the man apart from the look in his eyes and the tense posture he held. That feeling of not being threatened however disappeared the moment the other man smiled at him – a cold, hard, purely sadistic smile and the words accompanying the gesture send a shiver down Rafa's spine. 

“This wasn’t exactly the way it was supposed to go but this’ll do just fine. Actually it’s better this way, up close and personal…”

Rafa found his mouth dry and his mind absolutely void of any thought. He had no idea how to react to the threat being thrown his way or the obvious sadistic pleasure the other man displayed at the fact that he had managed to not only get to Rafa but had found a way of making sure they were alone and there was nobody else around to help. If he wanted a way out of this situation, a chance to safe himself from another attack. Rafa needed to do it all on his own. 

He never even for a second took his eyes of the other man and watched in utter horror as his attacker reached a hand into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a switchblade. Rafa took a step back, feeling one of the benches hitting him softly in the crook of his knees, but not quite making him loose balance again. The terror he felt however was crippling. He had reached the far end of the room and there was nowhere else to go, nowhere to hide and now way to avoid the other man who was slowly, deliberately coming closer, knife in hand.   
   
“No stabbing you in the back this time. I want you to look at me when it happens.”  
   
Rafa wasn't trained or experienced in any self defense techniques but instinct was already kicking in, adrenaline pumping through his veins, sending his body into fight or flight mode as his self preservation instinct was the only thing of importance right now. The moment the other man moved forward, blade of the knife pointed directly at him, Rafa managed a step to the side and went for the other man's wrist, stopping him mid motion and keeping the tip of the knife away from his own body. They were standing there like this, interlocked, the attacker pushing, Rafa holding on for dear life. It would have felt ridiculously intimate hadn’t it been his very life at stake here if he allowed so much as a moment of distraction to seep in.  
   
Obviously his attacker had not expected much of any resistance or anything else but for Rafa to be frozen in terror. However it didn’t deter him from his self appointed mission. If anything it made him more irritated and determined. He pushed against the restrictive hold on his wrist and tried to twist out of Rafa’s hold but to no avail. Fury was like fire in the other man’s eyes and his snarled words were painful to listen to.  
   
“Let go, damn it! Stop fighting! Time to die already!”  
   
His attacker doubled his efforts and the blade of the knife inched closer. Rafa knew he wouldn't be able to keep both the strength and the energy to hold onto the man's wrist for much longer. He needed a plan, a chance to get his attacker off him, throwing him off his balance long enough to reach the door of the room and get out! It was a reaction out of pure desperation, using his full body weight to drive his attacker back just a couple of inches, enough to throw him of his balance and relent the pressure he kept against Rafa's hold on his wrist. It gave the Spaniard the chance to let go of the other man's wrist with one hand and he took a swing at his attacker, elbow first, hitting him square across the chest. The reaction was just as Rafa had anticipated. The other man stumbled back, the sudden blow showing a dizzying effect on him. 

Rafa pushed hard and finally managed to get out of the death grip they had been struggling in with each other, the way to the door free. He didn't get very far though because his attacker recovered way quicker than Rafa ever could have imagined. He was half a step passed him when the man barreled into him, sending him stumbling across the locker room, loosing his footing and tumbling into one of the rows of lockers, hitting his shoulder so hard it pushed the air out of his lungs. The time it took Rafa to get his bearings again, had been enough for his attacker to do the same. The stranger shook his head to clear his vision and gave a low, inhuman snarl before he hardened the grip on the knife again, ready to attack. 

Seconds later – before the other man could ever reach him - the door to the locker room suddenly burst open and two additional security guards were on top of his attacker before he had a chance to take as much as another step into Rafa’s direction. Rafa could only watch as all three men struggled but finally his attacker was subdued and the knife clattered to the floor... Rafa allowed a breath of air to escape his lungs he hadn't even been aware he was holding. 

Adrenaline dissipating he felt his legs threatening to give way under him. He needed to sit… He simply let himself slide down onto the bench standing in front of the lockers he had tumbled into not comprehending much of anything that was going on around him. The additional security guards were trying to contain his attacker but all Rafa could hear was his own blood rushing in his ears and the harshness of his breathing feeling like his lungs had suddenly caught fire. 

He flinched hard when there was a hand on his shoulder, reacting on instinct, pushing the offending appendage away and trying to put distance between himself and the person who had come so close to him. Looking up to see what this new threat was he was dealing with, his vision grayed for a moment, spots of lights dancing in front of his eyes, before he realized it was Carlos who had tried to comfort him. His coach was talking to him but Rafa couldn't make out the words. 

#*#*#*#  
   
Roger had stayed behind the security personnel as instructed and had watched in horror and fascination as the guards had subdued Rafa's attacker and had then watched the younger man slide down onto the bench behind him, utterly spent. Carlos had brushed past him and was standing in his line of sight now, talking to Rafa in a soothing tone of voice. Roger could barely see Rafa from this angle standing at the door to the locker room but he could make out the younger man sitting on the wooden bench, pretty much crumbled in on himself with his head hanging low, his chest heaving and his hands shaking. He was pretty sure that Rafa had barely any more color then the Wimbledon dress code whites he was wearing. 

He watched as Carlos tried to get Rafa's attention by touching him by the shoulder but only managed to make the younger man flinch and scoot away. Obviously it had been the wrong course of action as Rafa was deeply rattled by what had just happened to him. Carlos kept on talking though, kept on trying but Roger wasn't sure he was actually getting through to Rafa. Finally the Mallorcan seemed to decide he was the wrong person to do this. Or at least that was what Roger assumed because Carlos stepped away, aiming for the door. Roger stopped Carlos on his way, concern written all over his face.  
   
“Is he okay?!”  
   
“He’s fine, I think. Pretty shaken up but other than that he’s fine. Not hurt in the slightest. But he won't talk to me... I'm going to get one of his parents or Mari. They'll probably have more luck...”

So far Roger's entire focus had been on Rafa and he could have cared less what was to happen to Rafa's attacker. But now that security was filing out of the room with the man who had tried to hurt Rafa yet again in tow, Roger couldn't help but stare as he took a few steps back, making room for them. Staring at the attacker Roger couldn't believe how... in control the other man seemed. He had just been defeated, subdued and apprehended, his plans thwarted and his confidence in his ability not to fail this time crushed but still he was calm, allowing the two security guards to guide him outside without putting up a fight.  

“Inspector Marcus...”

It came as a sudden, gut wrenching revelation as Roger realized he knew the other man... realized Mirka had been talking to him less than 20 hours ago and that this was the reason he had been warned of their intentions... All this time this police officer had been aware and Roger couldn't believe the fact that he had already met and talked to Rafa's attacker before. He had never had so much as a clue. The man had seemed completely normal to him... The Scotland Yard inspector shot him a look full of fury and disdain that Roger had a hard time not to physically recoil from. The man’s voice was barely above a whisper as he was ushered past Roger, more a vicious snarl than an actual verbal reactions. His words registered either way and they send an icy shiver down Roger’s spine.  
   
“You! You betrayed me… You ratted me out. You… And because of him of all people! How dare you! You think I’m finished, don’t you?! You think I’m done? You think this is over? Think again… It's not over. It's far from over...”


	61. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lengthy author’s note ahead – you have been warned.
> 
> Here we are – we have officially reached the end of this story. Can’t believe that is actually happening… It’s been such a long time since I started this… But back on topic. 
> 
> The end of the previous chapter was initially supposed to be the end of the story and of part 1. I had planned on writing a sequel to this and I had already started but I was getting nowhere with it. Everything felt sort of repetitive and telling a story that’s already been told seemed kind of pointless to me.
> 
> So I decided to push it all together into a rather long epilogue. It shows here and there I think, because it feels a little like I’m wrapping up a couple of things too quickly. But in the end, that’s what the epilogue is for and I think I have found a good finish for this story.
> 
> So at this point all that is left for me to say is thank you – to everyone who read, left kudos and reviewed. A special thanks to **malimi** who stuck with this story from beginning to end and always left feedback on every single chapter. You deserve a giant hug and a plate full of cookies in my book!
> 
> So after four months of posting this (4!?), it’s time for us to say goodbye to this story. I really hope you liked reading it as much as I had fun writing it.
> 
> Here comes the very last chapter – enjoy!
> 
> <>°O°<>

*September 2020 - Mallorca*  
   
While his wife was – rather unsuccessfully – trying to get their kids to sit through their dinner without making too much of a mess, Roger had gone in search of Rafa, who had excused himself from dinner about 15 minutes ago and hadn’t shown up again. He found the younger man at the stern of his yacht, looking out to sea where the sun had just started going down. It was a peaceful evening and an almost serene scenery.   
   
Roger couldn’t help but sigh softly at the sight. It had been this way for the past ten days – quiet, relaxing, almost serene… Today was their last day on the island and this little trip out to sea had been planned right from the start as the last thing they would do together before saying goodbye to one another in the morning.   
   
It was a moment of contemplation as well. A moment to think back on everything that had happened in these last three months. In the end all of it had turned out alright – at least that was how Roger felt about it. But that did by no means mean it had always been easy, not for either of them. The attacker – inspector Gregory Marcus as it turned out – had been right about one thing. The whole matter hadn't been over, not right away. In the three months since the second attack at Wimbledon it was only now that there actually was any peace and quite to be had.   
   
*#*  
   
In the direct aftermath of the attack, Rafa had felt pretty much numb. He had only been dimly aware of the people around him. Carlos who had talked to him and had then disappeared, members of security and from the tournament officials lurking close by and then there had been his mother. He hadn’t realized it was her until she had knelt down in front of him, placing two warm hands on his knees and making him wince in the process.  
   
Physical contact had been more than just a little difficult in those first few hours after the attack. But seeing her strained smile and the concern on her face, he had known there was no danger. Still it had taken a while before he had been able to react to her presence and when he had, the only thing his mind – still reeling from what had happened – had come up with, was astonishment and horror. He had raised a hand, had measured a distance of less than five inches and had seen his mother grow even paler at what he had to admit.  
   
“He was this close…”  
   
“Oh my dear darling boy… You are safe now. Everything will be alright. I promise…”  
   
There had been more promises and reassurances, but Rafa couldn’t remember them all. He barely remembered anything of that Sunday afternoon. At some point it had been clear that there was no chance for the final to be played and his family had taken him back home to their rented house to get a chance to rest and hopefully find some peace and quite in the confines of a place Rafa felt safe at.  
   
Roger had been outside the locker room watching the younger man for the longest of times. He would have liked a chance to talk to Rafa in person, to make sure he was really okay but it had been clear to see the younger man wasn’t exactly in any condition to do much of any talking. He himself had still been horrified by the realization that ever since they had come to talk to him a year ago, Roger had known Rafa’s attacker… or had at least met him.  
   
He knew he would have to tell the Spaniard at some point and it was not a conversation he was particularly looking forward to. Right there and then however it had been the wrong time and place. If there ever had been a moment for privacy, a moment to spend within the safety net of friends and family, that was it. So Roger had left Rafa to be with the people he felt safest with and had done the same for himself, seeking out his wife.  
   
*#*  
   
The days that had followed the attack had been difficult for all of them. Roger and Mirka had stayed in London for the time being as police had made it clear that their testimonies would be needed. While they had gladly stayed to help, Rafa had wanted nothing more but to go home and put as much distance between himself and his attacker. He had been deeply affected by what had happened to him, unable to sleep restfully and when he had slept, he had been woken by nightmares mixed with memories of both the attacks.  
   
Of course his family had noticed and of course they had been concerned. The Spaniard had barely talked to any of them and the lack of sleep had shown rather obviously. To Roger’s surprise it had been Carlos who had asked for his help. It seemed like Roger had finally managed to redeem himself in the eyes of the older man and he had gladly helped out in any way he could. Right there and then it had been a call placed to Charlotte.   
   
Charlotte had of course agreed and had been a great help in those first weeks. Roger and Carlos had seen eye to eye on that for once and had both decided it was best to call the younger woman and ask her to come and help. She had done so gladly and had accompanied Rafa back home to Mallorca, getting him to talk to her and open up about his worries and fears and feelings. She had been a savior in those days and Rafa was still very much grateful for everything she had done.  
   
In the days that followed the second attack leaving London had not been an option. A police investigation had been in full force and both Rafa and Roger had talked to the investigating detectives a couple of times, telling them about the letter, about their 'war council' prior to the final, about involving tournament officials to get them to help find the attacker and about the attack itself of course.   
   
It had been three days before Roger had actually seen the Spaniard again and once again it had been Carlos, who had managed to surprise Roger when he had invited both him and Mirka to come by for lunch. It had been a subdued affair. The whole family and team were tiptoeing around Rafa, not wanting to do or say anything that might shatter what little confidence he had regained after the second attack. Roger himself had mostly been worried by the pale complexion, the visible fatigue and the way Rafa had been pushing his food around on his plate without actually eating any of it. In the end, silently sitting there, simply watching and fretting had not been something Roger could do.   
   
“Are you okay? Do you feel sick?”  
   
“Mh?”  
   
“You keep pushing your food around.”  
   
“Not hungry.”  
   
“How about some fresh air?”  
   
Judging from the looks given to him at the question, Rafa’s team and family were actually grateful for the intervention. The younger man had stared at him for a long moment, contemplating the idea and had finally nodded. It had been warm but cloudy outside, they had settled on the patio and Roger had been at a loss for what to say. He could have assured Rafa, could have told him everything would be fine but that wasn’t exactly his place.  
   
Finally he decided to be open and honest with Rafa and finally tell him about his connection to the the attacker. Roger had been afraid to tell Rafa about it because the last time he had kept a secret from Rafa, they hadn't spoken to one another for months and Rafa had been angry with him for the longest of times. Rightfully so of course but still the last thing Roger wanted was a repeat. Then again the only way to avoid that was honesty. They had made that promise months back in Shanghai – no more secrets – and Roger was very much wiling to abide by that.  
   
“Rafa. There’s something I need to tell you.”  
   
“Okay…”  
“The man who attacked you? I knew him... He was one of the inspectors who came to talk to me last year... I didn't know at the time of course, but he was one of them. I had met him before. I'm so sorry...”  
   
Roger had tried his hardest to choose his words carefully and he still felt he was not making himself clear enough on how awful and guilty he had felt at the realization that he had already met Rafa’s attacker before. He wasn’t sure what to expect but the confusion that shone on Rafa’s face at Roger’s revelation certainly had not been high up on the list. Obviously emotions had managed to get in the way once again because unlike what Roger had feared, Rafa seemed to see no fault in any of it.  
   
“Why would you be sorry? You did nothing wrong. You couldn't have known.”  
   
“Then why do I feel like I failed you?”  
   
“For the same reason I still feel afraid even though he can't hurt me any more. He is locked away... and still I don't feel safe.”  
   
It was a very honest confession and the fact that Rafa was very much still afraid tugged at Roger’s heart. He could understand it of course. Even months after Rafa had been attacked in Paris, he himself had still woken in a cold sweat as the awful memories invaded his dreams. Rafa’s life had been in danger just a couple of days ago – again. One didn’t just brush that off and carried on.   
   
The fact that Rafa was aware of it however was a big step into the right direction though. Unlike Roger at the time who had been in denial for weeks and weeks that the way the attack had affected him was anything but normal… He tried no to focus on the implications but on what Rafa had said, using the confession as a way of explaining why they both felt the way they did. Roger picked up on that.   
   
“And what would that reason be?”  
   
“We are both idiots.”  
   
Roger had chuckled at that. Rafa was right after all. When it came to how to best deal with their feelings, they definitely had acted like idiots a lot of the time. Once again he couldn’t help but feel grateful to Mirka for involving Charlotte in both their lives… The therapist had certainly helped to put things in perspective. But it wasn’t all her doing. If anything positive had come from all that, it was the believe that maybe now they were stronger for it. Roger definitely had no doubt that Rafa would pull through and be able to deal with it all in the end. He had the first time, he would do it now.   
   
“You will be okay though. I know it's hard right now... But you will be fine. You saved yourself and he won't ever hurt you again.”  
   
“You saved me. You came and warned me.”  
   
It felt a little like déjà vu. It was a conversation they had a couple of times before but unlike all those other times, Roger decided not to make a discussion out of it. He had come here to warn Rafa, that much was true but he had done little to nothing to actually save the younger man from his attacker. If Rafa wanted to see it that way though, Roger wouldn’t argue. In the end they had both been able to overcome their demons this time – by fighting them and making sure the outcome was a different one from the first attack.  
   
“Let's just say it was a combined effort.”  
   
“Okay.”  
   
*#*  
   
It had been five days until the two inspectors that had listened to their testimonies the day after the attack had come to talk to them again and they had brought a lot of news and a breakthrough in the case. They had all been gathered at Rafa’s rented house so the inspectors wouldn’t have to give the same information to different people multiple times. They were settled at the large table in the dining room, intently listening to what the two men had to say. All of it was good news in the end but not all of it felt good to hear.  
   
“Even though Mr. Marcus us still refusing to give a testimony himself, there has been a lot of evidence gathered over the course of the last couple of days. We dug into his personal life and  found a storage locker rented in his dead mother’s name… He probably thought he was being clever. He should have known better. Years and years of experience as an inspector and still he thought he could fool us…”  
   
“What did you find?”  
   
“Among other things the laptop he used to write those letters on. He tried to wipe the data of course but our technicians were easily able to restore it.”  
   
The mention of the laptop and the files that contained the letters Roger had received caused a very torn feeling. On the one hand he was glad and almost elated at the fact that the police had finally turned up real, physical evidence, on the other hand being reminded of the letters caused a hard knot to form in the pit of his stomach – as it always did. What truly bothered him was the mention of thos ominous “other things” though.  
   
“Among other things?”  
   
“I really don’t think…”  
   
“Just tell us. Please?”  
   
“He kept the knife.”  
   
Rafa had visibly paled at the mention of the weapon and Roger could understand now, why the two inspectors had been so reluctant to talk about this. After all Rafa had been attacked for a second time just a couple of days ago… The memory still fresh, mentions of the first attack that had almost cost him his life had obviously felt like a bad idea to the two policemen. The one thing Roger was truly hung up on was the fact that Marcus had kept the knife he had attacked Rafa with in the first place. Looking at it from a detached, logical point of view, it seemed like a tremendously idiotic thing to do…  
   
There had been more information the police had given them, but Roger had sort of zoned out after the mention of the knife, keeping a close eye on Rafa instead of really listening. The younger man had tried hard to concentrate on what the policemen had to say, but it was easy to see how difficult it was for him to try and stay focused and not let his emotions win the better of him.   
   
They had sat outside on the patio again later on and Roger had been glad – and quite frankly a little surprised – Rafa had asked to talk to him. Roger had half expected him to retreat to the safety of his bedroom and hide himself away from the rest of them to deal with this on his own. But it seemed Rafa actually preferred to have company. Not that they had talked. Not at first at least. They had sat together in silence, each one of them lost in their own gloomy thoughts and when Rafa had started to talk to him in a low tone of voice without actually looking at him, it had come as a surprise to Roger.  
   
“I never questioned any of this before. The police in Paris came to talk to me and that was very unpleasant… And the fact that Marcus came to talk to you, probably means the investigation they did was halfhearted at best. I mean there were so many people and cameras and… still he got away.”  
   
“He created a massive distraction, Rafa. All people cared about was to get out of the stadium. I don’t think any of them were thinking about you or me in that moment. Except for our families of course. Apparently he took very good care of hiding his tracks. He knew very well what he was doing – on both accounts. Which is why I think it’s so odd he kept all the evidence linking him to his crime locked away in some storage container. I mean he had to have known that was reckless… Why do it?”  
   
“Because he is crazy. That is what you told me.”  
   
“I did at that…”  
   
It wasn’t really a satisfactory explanation and neither one of them felt particularly good about that. Roger knew that about himself for a fact and judging from the forlorn expression on Rafa’s face he felt the same way. It was probably the reason why the Spaniard didn’t want to let this go just yet. In the end he came up with another explanation – a more satisfactory, logical one… As much sense as it made, it was heartbreaking to think of at the very same time.  
   
“I think he wanted something to remember it by. It was his ultimate show of loyalty and respect to you… It’s normal he would want a keepsake, no?”  
   
“Nothing about this is even remotely normal.”  
   
*#*  
   
They had already been back to their respective homes when the news had finally come that the courts in London and Paris had come to an agreement about where Gregory Marcus would be tried. It was more than two weeks after the second attack but apparently for an Inter-European court decision it was still pretty quick. Roger hadn’t been made aware by anyone who was officially involved with the matter. After all he was just one witness, one small cog in the machinery. But Rafa had been informed of course. And the younger man had called to tell him.  
   
“The extradition to Paris was granted.”  
   
“That’s good, right?”  
   
“That is what the attorney general said. He said in Paris the charges are a lot more severe. In Paris… he will not ever get out again.”  
   
“But that’s great news! He won’t ever get another chance to even come near you again!”  
   
“Yes…”  
   
As elated and enthusiastic Roger was, as subdued and almost saddened was Rafa’s reaction on the other end of the phone. It was hard to grasp why the younger man felt no joy or excitement at the prospect of a trial that would most definitely end with a life sentence for his attacker. Roger sure didn’t get it and he wanted to understand, wanted to make sense of Rafa’s strangely subdued reaction.   
   
“You sound troubled?”  
   
“It’s not like it’s just going to happen. There is a trial first.”  
   
“Are you afraid he won’t be convicted? The evidence is overwhelming.”  
   
“It’s not that.”  
   
Rafa had pretty much stopped mid explanation and even though he couldn’t see the younger man’s face, Roger could tell by his tone that the Spaniard felt… embarrassed for some reason. That made even less sense to him than Rafa feeling apprehensive about the trial. Roger tried to come up with an explanation of his own and thinking about it now it came to him with a sudden clarity that – realizing it now – should have actually been obvious from the start. This wasn’t about the trial or the sentence – not really. This was about the physical proximity to the man who had tried to kill Rafa – twice in one year.   
   
“You don’t want to be near him again...”  
   
“I wanted a chance to decide for myself. But I can’t. I have to be there. I have to sit there and let other people decide. It’s my injury, my life that has been changed and I don’t get a say in what happens to the man who did it. That’s… not fair.”  
   
“It will be if he is convicted. And you don’t have to be there for anything other than your own testimony. If you don’t want to go through all that, you don’t have to.”  
   
“What about you?”  
   
“What about me?”  
   
There was a long moment of silence and had Roger actually seen the younger man’s face, he would have been confronted with an impatient gaze and a mild show of disdain at his inability to figure out what it was Rafa wanted to know from him. It didn’t take too long for Roger to understand though. He had never had any doubts about his decision. Unlike Rafa he felt both exhilaration and a certain amount of glee at the chance to witness justice being served on the man who had hurt Rafa so drastically a year back..  
   
“Oh… Well, I’ll be there. All the way. I want to see this through.”  
   
“Okay.”  
   
It hadn’t exactly been a but Roger had assumed Rafa’s agreement meant that he would be there for the trial as well. He turned out to be right about that. Rafa had called a week and a half later when the court in Paris had issued a date for the trial. He had been… strange on the phone and it had taken a while before Roger had managed to coax him into telling him what the call was really about. Of course it had been about relaying information. But as it turned out, there was more on Rafa’s mind and for some reason the younger man had felt apprehensive about that. Not that there had been any need for it…  
   
“I don’t want to stay at a hotel.”  
   
“That’s your choice.”  
   
“What about you?”  
   
“Well, I don’t know yet. I would have to talk to Mirka. I assume she wants to come with… What about you and your family?”  
   
“They want to be there… but… I don’t think I want them there.”  
   
Rafa’s answer had surprised Roger more than it probably should have. They had never really talked about it, but Charlotte had let him in on the fact that Rafa felt very protective when it came to his family and the way what had happened to him had affected them. She had told him the Spaniard was adamant to make sure they would not be hurt again. Which explained why Rafa wanted to go through the process of the trial alone… It didn’t make the decision any more reasonable – at least not in Roger’s mind.  
   
“Why on earth not?!”  
   
“This has been so hard on them. It’s enough for me to have to go through it all again. I have to be there, no? They don’t.”  
   
“You can’t do this all on your own. It’s not healthy.”  
   
“You are there.”  
   
Rafa had actually managed to render Roger speechless in that moment. After everything they had gone through this last year - all the months of silence, the distrust, the disdain and betrayal Rafa had felt towards him and the small steps they had taken to return to some semblance of normal – Roger had not expected to be awarded with this much trust and responsibility. Rafa had effectively asked him to be his anchor throughout the time the trial would take. It was a lot to ask, a lot of responsibility…   
   
“Are you asking me to… join forces? Share a place maybe?”   
   
“It will be good, no? We won’t be alone. We can talk about what happens each day. We can do normal things. Cooking, watching TV… I want that. I don’t want to sit alone in some hotel and do nothing but think about the trial all day. I want distraction. I want somebody who understands…”  
   
“Which would be me?”  
   
“Yes.”  
   
Roger tried to contemplate how he felt about the proposal. He still wasn’t entirely sure. In the end this wasn’t about responsibility after all. Rafa wasn’t looking for a chance to dump his emotional baggage with someone. He wanted somebody who had gone through the same experience – albeit without the same horrifying physical consequences – and who understood how he felt. In the end it was a chance to share the burden – for both of them.   
   
“I’ll talk to Mirka and get back to you.”  
   
“Thank you, Roger.”  
   
Mirka had loved the idea for reasons Roger had never fully understood. Sharing a home with somebody they considered a friend but that they weren’t extremely close with and doing so during a very trying time of their lives, Roger had been sure she wouldn’t have wanted that. He hadn’t been sure he wanted it either. But Mirka had obviously been in protective mode when the decision had been made and Roger had been glad.   
   
Knowing that otherwise Rafa would be alone for it all, this was definitely the better way of doing things. Calling Rafa and letting him know, the younger man had been both happy and glad. Calls had been going back and firth – mostly between Mirka and Rafa after that – and in the end they had decided on a house right in the middle of Paris they had all felt happy with. It had been pretty much the last easy moment for them that had to do with the trial.  
   
*#*  
   
The first day of the trial had come and both Roger and Rafa had been aware very quickly that this would be a difficult time for them. Opening statements were the only thing that took place on that first day but it had brought with it a lot of memories, of which Roger had believed he had either buried them deep inside of him or had learned to deal with by now. As it turned out things weren’t as neat and easy as he had hoped.  
   
They had refrained from doing the one thing this whole idea of sharing a house had been about. They had not talked about that first day in court. Mirka had tried to coax both of them into it but hadn’t exactly been successful and in the end Roger had to admit he had been relieved when Rafa had retreated to the safety of his bedroom to be alone with his thoughts.   
   
The relief had lasted until about 1am in the morning. Roger had woken to the sound of somebody screaming and his sleep addled brain had needed a moment to realize the familiar voice belonged to Rafa. It had send a shiver down his spine. He had seen and heard the younger man in discomfort, in pain even but he had never ever heard a sound come from him that sounded like whatever he was going through was absolutely terrifying.   
   
Roger was out of bed and on his way to the guest bedroom Rafa had chosen for himself without even thinking about it. All that careful silence they had cultivated over the course of the evening suddenly didn’t seem to matter anymore. He wanted to be there for the younger man, wanted to talk to him and make sure that he was definitely okay. He reached the bedroom door and burst into the room without so much as knocking.  
   
Rafa was awake, sitting upright on his bed, most definitely woken from his own desperate screaming. He was pale – his complexion almost ashen – and there was a soft trembling to his hands that he tried his hardest to hide away by balling them up. He had looked up abruptly when Roger had entered the room unannounced and a strained smile had appeared on his lips that did nothing to quell Roger’s worries.   
   
“Rafa?! What happened?!”  
   
“It’s okay. Just a… a nightmare. I’m fine now.”  
   
“You don’t look fine to me... Look, I don’t mean to pry but you asked us to share a house. You wanted this so we could help each other out, remember? So let me help. Please?”  
   
For a long moment Roger was sure his plea would fall on deaf ears.  
When Rafa nodded, the gesture was so small Roger had almost missed it. But it was there and he had taken the silent invite to step further into the room and settle down on the edge at the foot of the bed, keeping a close eye on the younger man.  
   
“What did you dream about?”  
   
“Wimbledon. I… I couldn’t stop him…”  
   
Rafa didn’t even need to relay any more information. Roger knew exactly what the nightmare had been about. Rafa had relived the attack in the locker room in his dreams and this time all of his efforts to stop the attacker from plunging a knife into his chest had been in vain. Roger could wholeheartedly relate. His own nightmares had always been awful enough but he had never been physically hurt in his dreams… No wonder Rafa had been screaming. Roger tried for a reassuring smile that he didn’t quite manage. He hoped his words radiated more calm than his facial expression did.  
   
“He can’t hurt you.”  
   
“I know… I know he’s locked up, I know he won’t just leap over the table and banister in the courtroom and attack me, I know in the end he will be sentenced. But still…”  
   
“It will be better once this is over. You’ll have closure than.”  
   
*#*  
   
It had been a thought they had solely relied on in the days that followed. Nothing about the trial had been remotely pleasant for either of them. Two weeks had been issued as sufficient time to hear every testimony and have all the evidence presented. Most of the time it were a couple of hours in court, a trip into the city afterwards and long evenings of talking. It helped to some extent. Neither one of them were particularly happy or relaxed but at least the nightmares hadn’t returned.  
   
As the trial proceeded the day both Roger and Rafa were supposed to give their testimonies drew closer. The morning of that day neither one of them felt up for breakfast. Roger had felt a little queasy almost all morning and judging from Rafa’s complexion the younger man felt just as bad. There had been one more testimony from one of the French police officers to be heard first and then it was Roger’s turn to retell the events as the first of the two of them.  
   
It didn’t turn out half as bad as Roger had imagined it to be and it was over quickly. After all he didn’t have that much to tell. He had told the court about the explosion he had heard, about the chaos ensuing afterwards and how he had seen that something was wrong with Rafa and had gone to help him. He hadn’t looked at the Spaniard when he had told the court how long it had taken for help to arrive and he had heard his own voice break at the mention of Rafa losing consciousness and the EMTs arriving soon after.  
   
Rafa had been next and – as per his request – had given his own testimony in his native tongue, feeling neither confident nor fluent enough for any other language to use. Still it had been painful to hear him talk about what little he still remembered on the attack of his life. The one thing that had been blatantly obvious apart from how difficult the memory was, was the fact that Rafa wanted to avoid even looking in the general direction of Gregory Marcus at all costs, while he retold the events of that Sunday afternoon more than a year ago right here in the city.   
   
To Roger’s surprise Marcus’ lawyer had been very gentle in his cross examination for some reason. It had been mostly Rafa talking without being interrupted and the end the one and only question the defense lawyer wanted an answer to, was whether or not Rafa had actually seen his attacker. It was an answer he had to say no to but with all the other evidence presented, it barely seemed to matter anyway. Maybe the lawyer already knew he was fighting a losing battle… and antagonizing the victim of his client’s crimes had seemed like a bad idea. Which of course it would have been. It certainly wouldn’t have made Marcus any more likeable to the jury…  
   
When Rafa had returned to where Roger and mirka were seated after finishing up his testimony, he had still been very pale and had seemed deeply lost in troubling thoughts. Roger had put a gentle hand on the other man’s forearm, hoping to ground him with the physical contact, leaning in closer to whisper to him.  
   
“How are you? Do you want to leave?”  
   
“No. It’s okay. The worst is over now.”  
   
*#*  
   
It had been kind of a jinx and maybe they should have known better after everything that had happened in the last year. But some things one always learned the hard way… Gregory Marcus had been quiet for the longest of times throughout the trial. Always sitting rigidly beside his lawyer, barely ever talking to the man and acting like none of what happened actually affected him.  
   
At some point the man must have come to the conclusion that despite what he had promised Roger in a vicious snarl that day at Wimbledon, he would not get another chance to finish what he had started. He probably was also acutely aware of the fact that his prison sentence would not be a light one… He knew he had nothing to lose, which – in his mind – obviously meant that now he could say whatever he wanted. And that was exactly what he proceeded to do.  
   
It came as a surprise to everyone involved that Gregory Marcus wanted to testify. Had they known before, both Roger and Rafa had probably opted out of going to court that day. But it was supposed to be the day for closing statements and – if the jury decided quickly – also the day the verdict would be rendered. But things turned out differently. And Gregory Marcus used the last chance he would most definitely ever get to get back at the two men – one who he hated with a passion and the other who had betrayed him.  
   
He retold every last moment of the attack on Rafa in brutal detail and it was not to actually state any facts or to launch one last desperate attempt to get the jury to feel more sympathetic towards him. He did it simply to hurt both Rafa and Roger in the process. There was no remorse to the man’s tone of voice, not even once during his prolonged monologue. He looked… happy at the memory and that was the most disgusting thing of it all.  
   
“It was a plan long in the making. Pretty much ever since it was clear Paris would be the final to equal the records… I couldn’t let that happen. I should have as it turned out. I would have avoided a lot of trouble and the end result still would have been the same… That is my biggest regret – the failure. The memory itself is a good one for me. The feel of the weapon in my hand, pushing past the resistance of skin and tissue, the blood… It was… exhilarating. I had other options of course. But I wanted it up, close and personal. It’s more satisfactory that way.  
   
I enjoyed it, it’s as simple as that. I would have loved to stay and watch. But I couldn’t of course. I had to make sure to get away. It’s a shame really, being here now. All that effort was in vain. I could have stayed to watch just as well after all. It wouldn’t have made a damn difference… Or maybe it would have. I could have made sure of being successful had I stayed that day. I would feel a lot better now, had I done things just a little differently that day.”  
   
Marcus stopped his tale with his godawful conclusion and his eyes wandered across the room, resting on both Roger and Rafa. It was the first time the man actually sought eye contact with them, his tone of voice so cold and vicious, it was hard to not avoid the gaze. It seemed he wasn't done hurting them yet and wanted one last chance to bathe in his moment of glee.   
   
“You should have died and you should have been grateful for it! That was the plan.”  
   
The judge had adjourned the trial for that day immediately after Marcus' statement. His testimony had been given on a Friday afternoon, the verdict would not be rendered until the following Monday and the weekend in between had been hard on all of them. They had made plans for restaurant visits and a trip into the city but those had been cancelled. Seeing other, prying people had not been on the agenda for them anymore after Marcus’ testimony.  
   
Rafa had been very quiet for the longest of times and Roger hadn’t dared to go talk to him. Not this time. It was different from the nightmare. This… was real. There would probably never come a day that this would seize to be a difficult topic between them. As ridiculous as that sounded because neither one of them was at fault. It was simply how Marcus felt about the two of them… and the other man had acted on that incentive, in the worst possible way.   
   
It had been Mirka who had finally talked some sense into him, telling him they had rented this house together to support one another and that he had already acted on that incentive before and now wasn't any different. There was no need and no use in running away and hiding from the problems that had been bound to arise from the trial taking place. She had been right of course... and Roger had sought Rafa out. They had mostly been sitting together, sharing a bottle of wine and Roger had simply waited for Rafa to reach the point where he felt comfortable to actually talk about today's events. He did, eventually...  
   
“He hates me… I don’t think anyone has ever been so passionately hateful towards me. Occasionally people stay stupid things… But this.”  
   
“Don’t read into it. I told you before. He’s crazy. And you don’t deserve any of this – neither his hatred nor what you had to go through. I wish I could have stopped all this.”  
   
“Don’t start again. What’s done is done. I’m fine now.”  
   
Fine wasn’t exactly the word Roger would have used to describe Rafa’s current condition but he didn't want a discussion with the younger man. Throughout today – throughout the whole trial – Rafa had held himself exceptionally well. When he was sure that he was doing okay, Roger was willing to believe him. All he wanted was to make sure that Rafa was being honest with him... and not just deflecting.   
   
“Will you be able to sleep?”  
   
“I don’t know.”

Instead of responding, Roger had picked up his phone and had called Charlotte. It was the very first time they had spoken to her together and they had done so at length. They had talked about Marcus' statement, had talked about the whole trial and how they felt about it and in the end they had both been exhausted but feeling content. Charlotte had been happy with them and both men had been tired. Rafa had gone to bed afterwards. Roger had not heard so much as a sound coming from the younger man's room. He assumed that meant Rafa had slept through the night peacefully.   
   
*#*  
   
The jury that was to determine whether Gregory Marcus was guilty of the crimes he had been accused of took exactly an hour and 22 minutes to decide, after closing statements had been given on the last day of the trial. Rafa, Roger and Mirka had been in a nearby cafe, each of them nursing a cup of coffee without actually drinking it. The lawyer had called to let them know the jury was done and had assured them it was a good thing for a jury to take this little time.   
   
They had filed back into the courtroom soon after and there had been no need to talk. They were all nervous to the point of breaking and only the conclusion of the trial would bring any resolve – one way or another. Judge and jury were in conversation and Rafa understood most of it, his grasp of French having grown over the years. But Roger was still translating for him anyway. Though using another none native language to explain a third one seemed kind of stupid. But at least it was something for him to do while they waited on finding out what this jury had decided on Rafa’s behalf…   
   
“Has the jury reached a verdict?”  
   
“We have your honor.”  
   
“The defendant may please rise.”  
   
Marcus and his lawyer had followed the demand and the judge had returned his focus back to the jury and their spokesperson. Next to Roger, Rafa set completely still. It seemed even the younger man's breathing was more shallow than before and his sole focus was on the spokesperson of the jury and the little piece of paper she held in hand, containing the decision of what the punishment for the man who had attacked, hurt and almost killed Rafa would be. 

“On the charge of aggravated assault, we the jury find the defendant guilty. On the charge of attempted murder, we the jury find the defendant guilty. On the charge of domestic terrorism, we the jury find the defendant guilty.”  
   
There had been no elation, no joy, no happiness. Not right away. The enormity of the decision that had just been made needed time to sink in Marcus had been found guilt on all accounts. The most satisfying ones were of course the on pertaining to Rafa but the gravest one – the one of domestic terrorism – was what would quite literally break the man's neck... Gently tugging at Rafa's arm who had yet to move or say anything, Roger tried to get him to at least talk to him a little bit 

“How do you feel?”  
   
“Honestly, I don’t feel much of anything right now…”

It had been two additional days before the judge had decided on the actual prison sentence now that Marcus had been found guilty. Only the lawyers, the judge and the defendant were allowed to attend that part of the trial though and the attorney general had called them afterwards. There was little to no surprise to the decision but a feeling of deep and utter satisfaction.  
   
“It’s a life sentence with no chance for parole. He will never get out of prison ever again.”  
   
*#*  
   
It had been three weeks since the lawyer had said those particular words to them and remembering that now, remembering how Rafa had told him he still mostly felt numb and overwhelmed, Roger actually had to smile. Since he and his family had followed Rafa’s invitation to spend a couple of days with him for holidays on Mallorca, Roger had asked him how he felt a couple of times. The answer had always been the same – content.  
   
He had been standing a couple of paces behind Rafa this entire time, thinking about the past weeks and months, lost in his own thoughts. It must have been 10 to 15 minutes now and Rafa had yet to detect him. The thought brought another smile to Roger's face. After months and months of the Spaniard barely ale to tolerate anyone behind him that he couldn't see and didn't know what they were doing, this oblivion and calmness towards Roger's presence was probably the most obvious proof of progress being made when it came to Rafa's state of mind. But Roger hadn't come here to spy, he had come to find Rafa and talk to him. Stepping up to the younger man, Rafa gave him a soft smile but didn't say anything. It was up to Roger to start a conversation and he decided to keep it light and not tell Rafa about his previous thoughts. 

“There you are. I was afraid the kids finally had managed to make you desperate and you jumped.”  
   
“No need. They are great to have around.”  
   
“You wouldn’t say that if you had them every day.”

“No, probably not.”  
   
Rafa was smiling a genuinely cheeky smile at him, one that Roger gladly mirrored. He was very much aware of the fact that all four kids in such a confined space as the yacht were a little hard to take at times. Then again Rafa had a whole bunch of younger cousins. He was probably used to it. Roger hid back a soft sigh. He didn’t want to destroy the light hearted moment but they had both long since learned it was better to be honest than try to protect one another from their feelings. And Roger felt worried which was why he had sought out Rafa in the first place.   
   
“Are you okay tough? You seemed like you needed some alone time...”  
   
“No, not really. Just a moment to think. I feel… strange. I have been feeling bad for so long. First with the injury, then with trying to get back to normal and now with this. It’s strange to feel calm and happy… I’m not used to it anymore.”  
   
“Well you should be.”  
   
Rafa had nodded at that but it had not exactly been a convincing display of agreement. Roger was sure the younger man hadn't lied when he had told Roger he felt content. But he was most definitely lost in thought – just like Roger had been a couple of minutes earlier. There was no need to pry though, Rafa freely admitted to what he had been thinking about though he didn't look at Roger saying it but kept his gaze focused on the sinking sun.   
   
“A year ago was the first time we talked since I was attacked… A whole year…”  
   
“Doesn’t seem like it, does it?”  
   
Rafa shook his head and finally looked at Roger now, the smile on his lips just a tiny bit saddened. It wasn't a general feeling though, Roger was sure of it. It was simply a memory of times that had been far worse than today. Out here at sea and standing together, just the two of them, watching the sun dip down into the water, there was no doubt whether they were okay or not. Roger let out a small content sigh that made Rafa chuckle. Somehow – with everything that had been going on in the aftermath of this year's Wimbledon – there was a thought Roger hadn't quite allowed himself to say out loud until yet. There couldn't have been a better time.  
   
“It's over now. Once and for all.”  
   
“Yes. It really is.”  
   
   
\- FIN -


End file.
